What Makes Something Itself?

If you don’t know already, then let me tell you that I am a passionate football fan, and I support Manchester United. It’s been more than 15 years. I’ve seen the highs, and I’m currently seeing the lows of this club. It’s been like this for the last few years. And last week’s defeat in the FA cup piled a different kind of misery—it made me question who I am supporting? Not in a funny, but in a serious manner.

Because it’s simply not the Manchester United I became a fan of.

What am I saying? Just hear me out: the players are not the same; the manager is different; their way of playing has changed; even backroom staff, board members, and sporting directors are not the same. And if that’s not enough, then they are on course to change their stadium as well soon. And yet, every week I say, “We are playing today.”

I kept thinking about it because that sentence is philosophically heavy.

I’m clearly not supporting the players. Neither am I supporting the managers. It’s not even supporting staff, board members, or owners. But together they all make Manchester United what it is.

So, what I mean is that the club I fell in love with ‘doesn’t exist’ in material terms. Almost everything is different, as I mentioned earlier. And yet, it’s still Manchester United.

So why is it so? And how much does an entity has to change before it becomes something else? Or am I being loyal to a memory, a name, a badge, a feeling I refuse to let go of?

My search for answers led me to a thought experiment known as the Ship of Theseus.

Let’s sail.

The idea comes from ancient Greece. Theseus was a legendary hero, famous for defeating the Minotaur in the Labyrinth. According to the historian Plutarch (writing around 75 CE), after Theseus’ death, Athenians preserved his ship in their harbor as a memorial to his heroic deeds. Over time, as the wooden planks rotted, they'd replace them with new ones. Then more planks would decay, and they'd replace those too.

Eventually—maybe after decades or centuries—every single piece of the original ship had been replaced. Not one original part remained.

So Plutarch posed the question: Is this still the same ship that Theseus sailed?

Now, many philosophers have tried to explain this paradox. Each one reveals something true, sort of, and at the same time, leaves something awkward in the shadows.

Let’s begin where the problem was born. The Greek thinkers were obsessed with identity and the concept of change. For Heraclitus (around 500 BCE), this isn’t a paradox at all. He famously said:

Everything, for him, is in flux. Everything keeps going through countless changes, and stability is an illusion created by language. The ship changes because change is what it does. And so is anything else. The Ship of Theseus, therefore, is a metaphor for the constantly changing universe.

Plato explained identity using similar ideas. For him, what remains constant is form. He suggested that true identity lies in the unchanging concept, not the physical parts. So, it doesn’t matter if every plank is replaced; the ship remains itself as long as it has its form.

Plato’s student, Aristotle, was more grounded. He said that every physical thing in the universe is made of:
Matter - the substance from which it’s made, and
Form - the shape/pattern/arrangement that defines it.

In terms of a ship, matter would be planks, and the design of the ship would be form. For Aristotle, what makes a thing a thing is its essence and purpose. In Aristotelian terms, identity lives in structure and use, not in raw material. So, the ship remains a ship if it continues to serve the same function and is organised in the same way.

This paradox takes a very interesting turn in the 17th century when English philosopher Thomas Hobbes adds a further complication. He suggested what if another ship is built using the discarded planks from the original. Then, which ship is Theseus’?

Surely, he wasn’t going to provide any answers. From what he proposed, we can conclude that both ships exist, but the answer depends on what we care about. If one values the original materials, the rebuilt ship from old planks is "the real one." If one values continuous existence and function, the harbor ship is real.

John Locke, another 17th-century English philosopher, shifted the question from objects to persons. He thought of identity as continuity of consciousness, not physical form or substance. Hence, the Ship of Theseus, in Locke’s view, maintains its identity through its function and purpose, not its physical parts or structure. Therefore, replacing its components does not make it a different ship.

Later, David Hume, during the Age of Enlightenment, offered something different and perhaps more convincing. He argued that identity itself is a fiction we invent to make sense of constant change. We never actually perceive "identity" (or "sameness"); we only perceive different qualities at different times, and our mind constructs the idea that they belong to "the same" thing.

The ship is just a bundle of perceptions: wood, shape, design, colour, and function. When those change gradually, our imagination connects them and calls it "the same ship" out of habit and convenience. The paradox reveals more about us than about ships.

Immanuel Kant explored this further. He stated that identity isn’t something we discover in the world, but it is something our mind creates to make sense of our experiences. Hence, we must treat the ship as the same to avoid chaos. The Ship of Theseus paradox reveals how our thinking works, not how reality works.

This puzzle has survived over centuries, and it’s still relevant because it tells a lot about identity, change, and what it really means for something to remain “the same” over time.

Science has shown that you are not made of the same cells you had ten years ago. Your beliefs keep changing over time. Habits too. And yet, you insist you are still you.

Now, coming back to my football club, I am sure there are other people who must’ve grappled with the same question.

The identity of a team or a club in any sport is carried by the continuity of the story. The name, the badge, the stadium, the shared memory of glory and heartbreak, the rituals of watching, complaining, hoping, and swearing you’re done—until next week/match. And if you are a supporter of any team, then you know it’s impossible to leave. Because you want to be part of that story. 

What we all need to understand is this: identity is not purely physical, nor purely abstract. It’s socially agreed upon. United is United because millions agree to treat it as such, year after year, even when it’s painful.

In that sense, I’m not loyal to the current squad, or manager, or any staff; I’m loyal to an idea that survives constant replacement. The same goes for all who support any team.

So, which philosopher’s idea of identity do you find most convincing?