Oh, The Stories We Tell Ourselves

This entry is in the series Journey Through Stoicism

Have you ever thought someone was angry with you, disappointed in you, or avoiding you, only to find out you were wrong? Our minds are great at filling in the blanks, especially when the people or relationships matter a lot to us. Sometimes we get so attached to our own explanations that we start treating them as facts.

For years, I worried that I’d somehow upset an old friend whose simple act of love and acceptance had meant more to me than he probably ever realized. When my occasional attempts to reconnect mostly went unanswered, I started to wonder what I’d done wrong. Eventually, I sent a heartfelt note, apologizing for anything that might have happened. His reply showed me how wrong my assumptions were.

Almost 2,000 years ago, the Stoic philosopher Epictetus warned us not to treat our judgments about events as if they were the events themselves. I was surprised to learn how much modern psychology agrees with this old idea. The founders of cognitive behavioral therapy were influenced by Stoic thinking, and years of research show the value of questioning the assumptions that cause us stress. It seems those old Stoics were onto something.

In The Stories We Tell Ourselves, the first essay in my new Ten Lessons in Living Well series, I look at how easily our thoughts can mislead us, especially when love, friendship, and uncertainty get mixed together. It’s a personal story about a friendship that still means a lot to me, and a reminder that not every thought in our minds deserves our belief or attention. Read the full essay and think about how often you’ve worried about a story your own mind made up.

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Joy in an Unfinished World

This entry is in the series Journey Through Stoicism

What do we do when good people suffer, when injustice wins out, and when doing everything right still doesn’t give us the results we hoped for? And how do we make space for happiness when so much around us feels wrong?

Those questions were at the center of Rev. Sally Campbell-Evans’ sermon this past Sunday at Hyde Park United Methodist Church. She was continuing a series on Ecclesiastes that Rev. Magrey deVega started the week before. Magrey had mentioned the Stoics, which caught my attention. Sally didn’t talk about Stoicism directly, but as I listened, I was struck by how closely her message matched ideas I’ve been studying and writing about for the past eighteen months.

One statement really stuck with me. “You are responsible for your faithfulness. Yes. But you are not responsible for controlling the outcomes.” That’s very close to what Epictetus taught almost two thousand years ago. We can choose how to act, what principles to follow, and how much effort to give. But we can’t guarantee the world will respond as we hope. I’ve learned that lesson through professional uncertainty, and I’ve encountered it just as often in my civic and social justice work.

But Sally took the discussion in a direction I found especially meaningful. She reminded us that seeing injustice means we have a responsibility to act, even if we can’t fix everything. And while we do that work, we still have lives worth enjoying. We have friends to spend time with, meals to share, everyday moments of happiness, and people whose presence makes hard days easier.

Then she shared a remarkable story from her time in Nicaragua during the Contra War. She was at a gathering of women when news came that one woman’s third son had been killed. The room filled with grief. After a while, another woman stood up and reminded everyone that life was still a gift worth celebrating. She invited them to dance, and they did. For the rest of the evening, those women danced together while grieving a terrible loss.

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All the Seasons at Once

This entry is in the series Journey Through Stoicism

A year and a half ago, a simple text from my pastor, Rev. Magrey deVega, introduced me to two Latin words I’d never heard before: memento mori. Remember that you must die. That short exchange led me to explore Stoicism, mostly out of intellectual curiosity. I had no idea how important those ancient ideas would become when life started throwing surprises my way.

This past Sunday, Magrey preached on Ecclesiastes and once again mentioned the Stoics. It seems he still has more homework for me. His sermon explored an interesting idea about life’s changing seasons. We usually think of those seasons as coming one after another, but what if several show up at the same time?

In the last eighteen months, I’ve grieved while rebuilding my professional life, found moments of happiness amid uncertainty, and discovered how much steadiness can come from ordinary daily routines. Magrey’s interpretation of Ecclesiastes gave biblical words to what I’d been learning through Stoicism. It also reminded me that many religious and philosophical traditions reach similar insights about change, acceptance, and our limited time.

In All the Seasons at Once, I look back at how a simple curiosity became something deeply personal, and how Ecclesiastes added a new layer to that journey. It’s a reflection on finding hope in uncertain times, learning to value ordinary days, and realizing that grief and happiness can sometimes happen together.

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Can You Be a Stoic and a Political Activist?

This entry is in the series Journey Through Stoicism
This entry is in the series 2026 Elections

Can you be a Stoic and still be politically active? I think the answer is not only yes, but that Stoicism gives us a better way to do it. The ancient Stoics did not confuse acceptance with surrender. They accepted what could not be changed, while challenging injustice when action was still possible.

That question feels especially urgent now. We are living in a time when division itself has become a political tool. Culture war fights can dominate attention while people are still struggling with housing, health care, violence, war, and the basic question of whether government can still solve real problems. Anger may be useful in campaigns. It is rarely enough to build a decent society.

Stoicism asks something harder of us. Stay engaged without becoming consumed. Think clearly when others are trying to provoke you. Act with courage when something is wrong. Keep justice at the center. And remember that the people on the other side of a political argument are still part of the same community.

Politics, at its best, is what we choose to do together. This essay asks what Stoicism can teach us about showing up for that shared life, especially when the temptation is to give up, tune out, or shout louder.

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Wisdom: Whittling Away at Uncertainty

This entry is in the series Journey Through Stoicism
This entry is in the series The Stoic Virtues

How do we know when we are wise?

I have been thinking about that question because wisdom may be the hardest Stoic virtue to define. Courage, justice, and temperance all give us something concrete to work with. Wisdom feels different. We rarely have all the information we want, yet life still requires us to decide, act, adjust, and sometimes admit we were wrong.

In Whittling Away at Uncertainty, I look at some decisions I would make differently today, a new job I am about to begin, and what experience has taught me about research, judgment, and knowing when enough information is enough. Wisdom may not be about certainty. It could be learning how to make the best decision we can, then having the courage to begin.

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What the Moment Asks

This entry is in the series Journey Through Stoicism

The right decision is not always the one written in the policy manual. Years ago, I suspended one of my best employees rather than take the next prescribed step: firing him. The suspension worked, the employee corrected the problem, and only afterward did I learn that company policy did not allow what I had done.

The Greeks called the wisdom needed in uncertain situations phronesis. It is a form of practical wisdom  that is shaped by experience, judgment, and a willingness to reconsider what is required. It helped me know when to depart from a policy, when to abandon a carefully designed plan, and when maintaining my health was enough during my mother’s final illness.

In “What the Moment Asks,” I explore the wisdom needed when rules and plans can’t provide the whole answer. It’s a kind of wisdom that listens, accepts correction, and turns experience into lessons we carry forward.

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What We Owe the Worker

This entry is in the series Journey Through Stoicism

People often see Labor Day as just the end of summer, but its history asks us to remember something more. The day began with workers fighting for safer workplaces, better pay, reasonable hours, and the right to organize. Those fights were never only about economics. They were about dignity.

The Stoics didn’t write about labor rights as we know them, but they believed strongly in justice, cooperation, and the common good. Marcus Aurelius reminded himself that people are meant to work together, and that harm to the community eventually harms everyone. This idea matters now, when many workers still have little control over their pay, safety, schedules, or ability to organize.

This Labor Day, let’s consider what Stoicism can still teach us about work, the value of workers, and what we owe each other in a society that says it honors labor.

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The Friends Who Walk With Us

This entry is in the series Journey Through Stoicism

Some friendships stretch across decades. Others arrive for a season, bringing exactly what we need at the time. A little wisdom. A little laughter. A place to rest. A reminder of who we are when life gets noisy.

In The Friends Who Walk With Us, I reflect on the people who have shaped my life, from friends who knew me when I was young to newer friendships formed in this latest season of change. Some are still close. Some have drifted. Some are gone. Yet each left something behind.

The Stoics understood friendship as part of a good life. Seneca wrote about loyal friendship; Marcus Aurelius about our deep connection to one another. Over time, I’ve come to see that friendship does more than comfort us. It changes us. We carry forward the patience, courage, humor, kindness, and wisdom others once gave us.

And maybe that’s part of the quiet duty of friendship. To receive what others give us.

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When Home Changes Hands

This entry is in the series Journey Through Stoicism

Today, the house I called home for at least 62 years belongs to someone else. The deed has changed hands, yet the rooms still hold holidays, family gatherings, neighborhood friends, and snow days spent sledding down the street. Somewhere in my memory, the treehouse is still waiting in the backyard, and Mom is still inside making space for us.

Grief comes in pieces, and sometimes one of those pieces is a place. Selling the house feels like another small loss, arriving nearly a year after Mom’s death. The house still stands, but I can no longer return to it as home.

Some pieces came with me to Tampa, including Mom’s porch rocker and my grandfather’s mantel clock. The rest must live in memory now. “When Home Changes Hands” is about letting go of a place that helped form me and hoping the next family fills it with the same warmth, safety, and love that Mom gave us.

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What Is the Money For?

This entry is in the series The Stoics

A single mother stops at a traffic light and hands five dollars to a homeless person. Jeff Bezos pledges $10 billion to fight climate change. Bezos will accomplish far more with his gift. Yet the mother may have given up something she needed.

That distinction sits at the heart of my latest essay. The world’s richest people possess more money than they could spend across several lifetimes. Their fortunes keep growing while the planet warms, public institutions weaken, and millions struggle to survive. Their philanthropy does useful work, though it rarely costs them any comfort or power.

So what is all the remaining money for? The answer takes us through the Gilded Age, the widow’s offering, other religious traditions, private bunkers, life extension, and the strange belief that enough wealth can free someone from the fate shared by every human being.

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A Softer Kind of Courage

This entry is in the series Journey Through Stoicism

What if strength does not always look like pushing harder?

In this new essay, I reflect on the habit of staying busy when financial pressure, uncertainty, and professional pride start to feel heavy. Being active can help us move forward, but it can also keep us from facing what’s already there. A surprising lesson from the human lungs opened another way of thinking about courage, one built around softness, space, and the wisdom to release what we can’t control.

The Stoics never asked us to become rigid. They asked us to see clearly, act where we can, and stop exhausting ourselves against what will not move. A Softer Kind of Courage is about learning when effort serves us, when it becomes avoidance, and why sometimes the bravest thing we can do is pause long enough to breathe.

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