Getting Back Up
There’s a kind of quiet that doesn’t feel restful. It doesn’t come with peace, but with the absence of direction, of companionship, of the little structures that give shape to a day. I felt that type of quiet this past Wednesday. Not the calm kind I enjoy on my early morning walks, but something uneasy. An emptiness after the full rush of last week.
Last week, I had a purpose. I helped lead a public program on Social Justice, something I care deeply about, and updated a Citizen Engagement booklet I had written with a friend. It was meaningful work. I was busy, focused, and needed. On Monday and Tuesday, I maintained that energy, getting into the job search. Applications sent, resumes updated, progress made. But then came Wednesday: quieter, aimless, still. No appointments. No Teams meetings. No urgent tasks. Just me, in a room that felt too quiet.
That afternoon, feeling a little low, I picked up The Beginner’s Guide to Stoicism and stumbled into Marcus Aurelius again, an old voice that can often feel familiar. The passage was from his, “Meditations” 5:9:
“Not to feel exasperated or despondent because your days aren’t packed with wise and moral actions. But to get back up when you fail, to celebrate behaving like a human—however imperfectly—and fully embrace the pursuit you’ve embarked on.”
It landed gently but firmly. A reminder that even in our dullest or most difficult moments, we are not failing simply because the day feels flat. To be human is not to march forward constantly, but to stumble, pause, reflect, and begin again.
I’ve only recently begun exploring Stoicism, but what draws me in is not some demand for indifference, as people sometimes assume. Instead, I’m finding a philosophy of steady returns. It’s not about constant control or high-minded virtue in every moment. It’s about getting back up when you feel low. About recognizing that a day isn’t ruined just because it wasn’t filled with grand and noble deeds or impressive effort. Aurelius doesn’t shame us for not achieving greatness daily. He just invites us to rejoin the pursuit.
Still, that’s easier said than done for someone like me, an extrovert who thrives on movement, conversation, and shared purpose. I’m someone who likes a rhythm, a routine: a morning walk, a meaningful project, a meeting with colleagues, a chance to contribute to something larger than myself. Days without those things can feel like slipping into a space without gravity.
I’m experimenting with a few small actions to give form to this new season. One is social: arranging lunches or coffee with friends, both to stay connected and to prevent isolation. Another is simple but grounding: going to The Portico Café or meeting someone at a Starbucks a few mornings each week for a cup of tea, to sit among people, even if I’m not in conversation. Just being around others makes a difference.
And of course, I’ll keep walking. My early morning walks are quiet, usually solitary, and often accompanied by music from a playlist. That solitude is different. It’s welcome. It’s when I feel most reflective. I let the rhythms of my movement settle the anxious parts of me. There’s something almost holy in those moments, something I’d never trade, even on the loneliest days.
But as the sun rises higher and the world wakes up, I begin to miss interaction. I miss casual conversations, collaborative work, and the sense of belonging to a team or a cause. And it’s in those hours that I feel the ache of transition most.
That’s where Aurelius speaks to me most today. He reminds me that I’m not required to be virtuous, sociable, motivated, or even useful all the time. What matters is returning to the path, even if all I can manage today is a walk, a cup of tea, or one good conversation. Even if all I do is feel what I’m feeling, and remain willing to try again tomorrow.
I believe many people share this sentiment, especially during times of transition. After a major project ends, or when a job is lost, or when the familiar patterns of daily life shift. It can be disorienting. Who am I without my schedule? Without a team? Without the clear to-do list and checklists?
The answer, I suspect, is that we are still ourselves. Still human. Still trying. That may be enough. Marcus Aurelius didn’t demand perfection. He only asked that we celebrate being human, imperfect, restless, striving human beings, and embrace the pursuit we’ve chosen, even if some days all we do is remember that we chose it.
Today, I’ll acknowledge that I’ve come to try to accept my sadness as a form of wisdom. I’ll count the walk I took this morning as movement toward the good. I’ll count the idea of lunch with a friend as a small act of hope.
And I’ll try, quietly and imperfectly, to get back up with intention.
That’s all any of us can really do.
