How Capitalism Turned My Existential Crisis Into a Subscription Plan

It’s funny how the deepest questions—the ones that keep you up at night—suddenly have a price. Not in pesos for a coffee or a jeepney ride, but in recurring monthly fees. I wasn’t just lost in life anymore. I was lost in the marketplace of self-help apps and online courses, all promising to fix the parts of me that feel like they’re falling apart.

“Subscribe now for ₱399 a month,” one app blared, offering me peace of mind I never thought I needed to buy. My existential crisis had become a product, and I was the customer. Every month, I’d pay just to get a little closer to understanding myself—except the closer I got, the more it felt like I was leasing my own identity.

I downloaded reminders to breathe, to journal, to meditate—each with a small fee attached. It’s like the more I tried to fix myself, the more I realized I was trapped in a cycle of consumption disguised as healing. My suffering wasn’t mine anymore; it belonged to the algorithms and marketing teams that turned my confusion into clicks and profits.

Friends joined the same cycle, chasing the next subscription that promised clarity or calm. But no app, no online guru, no monthly payment could quiet the questions that lingered in the quiet moments. The irony is sharp: capitalism doesn’t want real healing; it wants repeat customers. It wants me paying, over and over, for the hope of peace.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m really growing or just paying to pretend I am. I want silence that isn’t scheduled, peace that doesn’t come with a reminder, and meaning that doesn’t expire at the end of the billing cycle.

In this world, even our pain is a commodity. And maybe the real crisis isn’t just about finding meaning—it’s about realizing how much we’ve sold ourselves in the process.

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