The site for ranting and reporting by John Masters
nited Healthcare just sent me a letter asking about my “dialysis treatments” for a claim from July 2025. Small problem. I wasn’t on Medicare in July. I’ve never had dialysis. And the provider was BayCare Imaging. which does… imaging.
After 2 hours and 57 minutes on the phone with five reps who couldn’t grasp any of this. I’m sending them a bill for my time. Welcome to the American healthcare system. Pull up a chair.
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Most of us try to live with some mix of courage, honesty, and patience, but we rarely stop to ask where those instincts come from or what they are pulling us toward. I spent months working through the Stoic practices without realizing they were preparing me for something larger. Only later did I see that these routines were pointing me toward the four Stoic virtues. Wisdom. Courage. Justice. Temperance. Not as lofty ideals, but as quiet directions for daily life.
This new essay opens the door to that deeper work. It reflects on how the practices steady us and how the virtues give that effort its shape and purpose. If you want to see where this journey leads next, the full piece is up now.
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Most people imagine Stoic practice as a long list of habits they should somehow manage to fit into an already crowded day. The truth is simpler. Most practices don’t begin with a grand plan. They begin the way mine did. A quiet morning walk becomes a morning reflection. A hard season pulls you into sympatheia. Three lines in a notebook settle into evening contemplation. The practices grow inside an ordinary life. They do not sit on top of it.
This closing essay is an invitation to begin without pressure. You don’t need every practice. You don’t need hours of silence. You only need one small place to start. A moment of attention in a day that is already unfolding. If you want to build a steadier inner life without turning Stoicism into homework, this is the place to step in.
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Acceptance is not resignation. It is the moment when the mind stops fighting reality and starts working with it. I learned that watching a man who rides a three-wheeled electric bike around Tampa with a smile that seems to rise from the inside out.
The Stoics taught that acceptance begins when we stop struggling against what we cannot change. I have been learning this the slow way, through grief, uncertainty, and the small moments that reveal what the heart is holding.
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I grew up with death in the next room. My father managed a funeral home, and for a time our family lived in a small apartment above it. Most kids grew up with kitchen noise and television. I grew up with the quiet hum of grief drifting through the walls. I did not think much about it at the time, but it shaped how I see life. It also shaped how I understand endings. Later, I buried friends during the AIDS crisis. I cared for one of them in my home until he died. Those years taught me that death does not wait for a convenient moment. It just arrives.
The Stoics understood this impulse to drift into denial. They practiced rehearsing death so they could return to what mattered. The practice does not pull you toward fear. It pulls you toward clarity. In my own life, the deaths of family and friends have reminded me of this same truth. We do not control the length of our days. We control how we use the ones we have. If you want to read more about how the practice shaped my own path through grief, transition, and aging, you can find the full essay here.
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Our thoughts are not just passing moods or fleeting opinions. They are the architects of our character. They are the hidden builders of who we become. James Allen said it more than a century ago: “A man is literally what he thinks.” The Stoics would have nodded in agreement. The Apostle Paul might have, too. Each taught that transformation begins not with circumstance, but with the mind’s quiet work of shaping how we see, judge, and act.
In Thinking Our Way to Character, I explore how Allen’s moral vision aligns with Stoic and Christian wisdom, and how both still hold up under the weight of modern life. Through philosophy, faith, and a bit of neuroscience, the essay looks at how disciplined thought turns daily struggle into purpose. If you’ve ever wondered whether we can truly think our way toward peace, purpose, and resilience, this one’s worth the read.
What if imagining loss could make life feel fuller, not darker? The Stoics called it premeditatio malorum—the quiet practice of picturing what could go wrong, not to suffer in advance, but to steady the heart for when it does.
In this new essay, I write about sitting beside my mother near the end of her life, and later facing my own health scare. Both moments taught me that rehearsing misfortune isn’t about fear. It’s about gratitude. The kind that comes from realizing how much you already have.
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When I first began walking, one mile was a struggle. Every step was an argument between my will and my comfort. Over time, those miles became my teacher. What the Stoics called voluntary discomfort is not self-denial but a rehearsal for life’s inevitable hardships. When we choose minor difficulties—a plain meal, a long walk, a day without convenience—we remind ourselves that peace does not depend on comfort. Each act of endurance builds calm, gratitude, and freedom.
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Some people quietly shape the way we see the world. Some do it by teaching. Others, simply by being there year after year, when life tests our convictions. The Stoics believed that friendship was a form of moral training and that mentorship was the art of walking beside someone as they learn to live well.
In this essay, I reflect on five people who changed the course of my life. They were friends and mentors whose presence became a daily lesson in philosophy. Their stories align with the wisdom of Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius, as well as with the insights of modern science, proving what the ancients already knew: that deep connection is essential to a good life.
The Stoics called these relationships “friends of virtue.” Today, we call them the people who help us become who we’re meant to be.
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Millions of Americans voted for Donald Trump in 2024, believing he would deliver for farmers, the working class, retirees, and the forgotten small towns. But as his administration’s policies take shape, those same groups are paying the price. Hospitals are closing across rural America. Farmers are watching debts rise as export markets disappear. Working-class families face climbing health costs. Retirees are seeing threats to the Social Security and Medicare benefits they worked their lives to earn.
This essay traces the immediate fallout of those choices, showing how the policies now harming these voters were exactly what Trump promised to do. It’s not betrayal. It’s follow-through. The question is whether Americans are ready to face the consequences of what their ballots actually bought.
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We spend much of our lives pretending we have endless time. The Stoics knew better. Memento Mori—remember that you will die—was not a grim command but a call to live awake. Modern science now confirms what they intuited: when people recognize their days are finite, they become calmer, kinder, and more grateful.
In this new essay, I explore how ancient philosophy and modern psychology meet on common ground. From Seneca to Stanford researcher Laura Carstensen, the message is the same: awareness of mortality can make life richer, not smaller. Read Memento Mori: Learning to Live by Remembering Death.
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