I spent three years at Cambridge studying philosophy, and the idea that changed how I see everything came from a French literary critic most people have never heard of. René Girard noticed something uncomfortable: we don't really choose what we want. We catch desire from other people. We look at what the people around us are pursuing — our peers, our colleagues, the people we admire — and we absorb their desires as if they were our own. It sounds abstract. But think about the last time you really wanted something. A job. A relationship. A lifestyle. A status signal. How much of that was genuinely yours — and how much was borrowed, quietly, from someone whose approval you were seeking? I've been thinking about this a lot lately, because I've just left a career in finance and BD to do something that feels, for the first time, like mine. Not because it's impressive. Not because it fits the trajectory. But because I actually chose it. I'm offering philosophical counselling — one-to-one conversations using philosophy to help people think clearly about what they actually want. The first conversation is free. If this resonates: I'd love to talk. — Cosma

There's a pattern I keep noticing in conversations with people who are objectively succeeding. They hit the targets. They get the promotions. They build the things they said they would build. And then, often quietly, they start wondering: is this actually what I wanted? It's not burnout, exactly. It's something more unsettling — a gap between the life that looks right from the outside and the life that feels right from the inside. Philosophy has a name for this. Girard called it mimetic desire: the tendency to want what others want, to measure your life against the people around you, to pursue goals that feel urgent but aren't quite yours. The fix isn't to slow down or opt out. It's to think more carefully — about where your desires actually come from, which ones are genuinely yours, and what you'd choose if you weren't performing for anyone. That's the conversation I have with clients. Not therapy. Not coaching. Something older and, I think, more honest. What do you actually want? And how long since you last asked?

People sometimes ask me what philosophical counselling actually is. Here's the simplest version: it's a conversation where we slow down enough to figure out what question you're actually asking. Most of us are great at solving problems. We're less good at checking whether we've framed the problem correctly in the first place. We optimise. We execute. We get better and better at pursuing goals we haven't seriously examined. Philosophy is the practice of examining them. Not abstractly — not "what is the nature of the good" in a seminar room. Practically. In your actual life, with your actual situation, this year, right now. A session with me looks like this: you bring a question — about a career decision, a relationship, a nagging sense that something isn't right. We don't rush to the answer. We spend time making sure we're asking the right question. Then we think together, carefully, using whatever philosophical frameworks are actually useful. Stoicism if you're dealing with what you can't control. Girard if you're trying to untangle whose desires are actually yours. Existentialism if you're facing a choice that nobody can make for you. It's £100 a session. First conversation is free. If you're curious, just ask. I work best with people who take their thinking seriously.

A month ago I left a job in finance to start a philosophical counselling practice. People thought I was taking a risk. I thought I was finally doing the obvious thing. Here's what one month has actually looked like: The most common question people bring me isn't "what should I do?" It's "why don't I want what I thought I wanted?" That question, in different forms, has come up in nearly every session. The second most common: "I've achieved everything I said I would. Why does it feel like this?" Girard would recognise this immediately. When you finally get the thing you were chasing, the model who made you want it has often already moved on to something else. The desire was never really yours to satisfy. The conversations have been the best of my professional life. Not because they're easy — they're often hard, and sometimes uncomfortable — but because they're real. If you're sitting with either of those questions, my diary is open. First conversation is always free.