By David E. Lloyd
Our ability to choose freely—to shape our thoughts, actions, and destinies—has long been considered one of the cornerstones of what it means to be human. But what if that freedom isn’t as absolute as we’ve been led to believe?
From personal experience, deep introspection, and observation of global systems, I've come to understand that free will, free choice, and free agency are not constants. They are dynamic, interdependent forces, each vulnerable to erosion, manipulation, and dormancy—especially in the presence of fear, programming, and control.
We often speak of free will as the inherent ability to choose without external coercion. But what happens when expressing that will comes with consequences so severe—social exile, persecution, or even death—that most people abandon it before it ever takes shape?
In a world shaped by systemic power structures—religious, political, economic—free will is subtly and effectively caged. Not by direct force, but by conditioning: taught beliefs, inherited fears, and scripted worldviews. It’s easy to believe we’re choosing freely when, in reality, we’re selecting from a pre-approved menu.
Free choice implies awareness of alternatives. But how can we choose a path that we don’t even know exists?
When our perception of life is shaped by narrowly framed ideologies—whether through upbringing, media, or culture—our choices become illusory. We’re choosing between door A and door B without realizing that there’s an entire universe of doors hidden just beyond the frame we were given.
True choice requires awareness, curiosity, and the courage to question inherited truths. Without these, we aren’t choosing—we’re reacting.
Raised in a Christian tradition, I was taught that free agency was a gift from God: the ability to choose between right and wrong. But that idea quickly unraveled under closer scrutiny.
I was told I could “choose freely,” but only so long as I did what I was told. The alternative? Eternal damnation. That’s not agency—that’s coercion dressed in the robes of doctrine.
In many systems of control, “agency” is permitted only if it serves the system itself. Step outside the lines, and the consequences come swiftly. In this way, our will becomes an agent of control, not of liberation.
Though it may be unpopular to say, I believe the loss of free will is often a byproduct of global systems of external worship—especially those that promote an external savior and a judging God.
When we’re taught that something outside of us created us, and something outside of us must save us, we are subtly placed in a position of debt. In that debt, we often forfeit our sovereignty. Our loyalty becomes a contract. Our will becomes an offering.
Whether to God, government, or even a soccer team—whenever we surrender our inner knowing to an external program of control, we trade authentic agency for belonging. We become participants in systems that demand obedience over truth.
In my experience, our capacity for free will is intimately tied to our emotional state.
When we live in fear, our awareness narrows. We become reactive, self-protective, and malleable. Fear is the preferred fuel of control systems—because a fearful person is an obedient one.
But when we live in love, something extraordinary happens. Our awareness expands. Our vibration rises. Our perception widens. Possibilities multiply. In love, we can see options we were blind to in fear. Our free will becomes not just accessible—it becomes potent.
Love restores sovereignty. Fear fractures it.
Despite the density of these systems, I believe we are in the midst of a global transformation—a collective remembering.
Humanity is beginning to question long-standing structures and ask deeper questions about the nature of authority, truth, and selfhood. We are awakening to the understanding that we are not broken beings in need of external saving, but eternally connected, evolving souls, each with a unique purpose.
This shift—from fear to love, from hierarchy to harmony—is not only restoring our will, but reactivating our agency. As awareness increases, so does choice. As choice becomes conscious, so does action.
Of course, I sometimes wonder: What if all of this—these musings, this questioning—is merely a performance? What if the words I write are dictated by some unseen puppeteer?
Perhaps they are.
Or perhaps that puppeteer is none other than my higher self, nudging me back toward the remembrance of freedom—not just as a right, but as a sacred responsibility.
Either way, I choose to dance.
Free will is not a static possession. It is a living capacity—cultivated by awareness, exercised through courage, and sustained by love. As we shed the layers of fear, control, and conditioned obedience, we remember: we were always free. We just forgot.
And now, we remember.