Stoic Practices: Negative Visualization

Most people hear the term and think it sounds grim. Why picture bad things happening before they do? Why rehearse loss? To the Stoics, that question missed the point. Premeditatio malorum—the premeditation of evils—wasn’t about courting sadness. It was about learning to meet life as it comes, without the shock of surprise.

The philosopher Massimo Pigliucci told a story about this on a Hidden Brain episode. He was in a hospital after an episode of brain fog that might have been a stroke. While waiting for test results, he turned to Marcus Aurelius and began writing to himself in the second person: “If this is serious, how will you handle it?” He walked through the possibilities: heart disease, tumor, the end of his career, and asked what could still be done if any of them proved true. That wasn’t morbid. It was a way of reclaiming his footing.

I understand that now.

When my mother was near the end of her life, I spent long hours at her bedside. There was nothing dramatic about those days, quiet meals from the cafeteria, half-finished crossword puzzles, but time slowed down. My thoughts wandered ahead to what would follow her death. Years earlier, after my best friend Rick lost both his mother and the old family homes in Kings Mountain, he’d said, “I’ve got no reason to go back there now.” I remember feeling the truth of it then, and it came back to me as I sat beside Mom.

The shape of life would change. There would be no house to drive to, no place to launch a visit to Boone, that “thin place” I’ve always gone to recover from the world’s noise. The holidays she cherished would scatter across other tables. Even the practical things, like the neighbors who’d known our family for decades, or how the familiar route through town would slip away.

It wasn’t a hopeful meditation, but it was clarifying. I began to picture what would fill the space ahead: holidays with my husband’s family in St. Petersburg, hotel stays when I visit Boone, and new patterns forming in place of the old. By the time she was gone, grief didn’t catch me by surprise. There was sorrow, of course, but underneath it, a quiet acceptance. Even small realizations came later, like having no easy place to run if we ever have to evacuate during a hurricane. Each one landed softly because I had already walked through it in my mind.

The practice resurfaced in a different form a few months later. I’ve had colonoscopies every few years because my doctor always finds polyps. They’ve always been benign, but the word starts to lose its comfort over time. Last year, he found a “large and spreading“ one and had to remove it in pieces. That word, spreading, lodged itself in my chest. I had to wait 6 months for another procedure to be sure it was gone.

It’s a strange thing to imagine cancer inside your body, especially when you’ve just lost your job. My thoughts spun toward practical questions: how would we pay deductibles, what would treatment mean for my work prospects, what if I couldn’t work at all? But instead of letting the anxiety chew at me, I used it. I updated my will and power of attorney. I made sure my husband knew where every document was. I rehearsed the worst so that, if it came, it wouldn’t own me.

When the follow-up test came back clean, I felt gratitude more than relief. The plans I’d made were still helpful. The act of preparing had steadied me. That’s the paradox of this practice: thinking through loss deepens appreciation for what remains.

Seneca once advised, “Rehearse misfortunes,” not to live in dread but to blunt their sting. Marcus Aurelius echoed him: “You could leave life right now. Let that determine what you do and say and think.” The point is not to become numb. It’s worth noticing how fragile every ordinary day already is, and to love it harder because of that.

I used to think imagining loss would drain joy from life. It turns out to do the opposite. When I picture what could vanish, the people, the routines, even my health, I see their worth more clearly. Negative visualization doesn’t make me fatalistic; it makes me attentive. It’s not about death or disaster. It’s about learning to live with both eyes open.

What begins as rehearsal for grief becomes a practice of gratitude. Every imagined ending sharpens the present. And when the losses eventually come, as they always do, the heart is already half-trained to meet them with grace.

Practicing Negative Visualization

This exercise doesn’t need solemn music or candlelight. It works best when it’s woven into ordinary life. Here are a few simple ways to begin:

• Start small. Each morning, choose one familiar comfort—a person, a place, or a habit—and quietly imagine its absence. Picture life without it. Let yourself feel what would be missing, then return to the present moment and notice how your appreciation deepens.
• Use reflection time. During an evening walk or before bed, recall something you fear losing: your health, your job, your independence. Ask what you could do now to be ready if it changes.
• Balance thought with action. If the visualization stirs anxiety, turn it into preparation. Update a will, call someone you’ve neglected, or write down what matters most.
• End with gratitude. After picturing loss, anchor yourself in what’s still here. Gratitude closes the circle of this practice, keeping it from drifting into worry.

Negative visualization isn’t about expecting tragedy. It’s a gentle rehearsal that builds resilience and appreciation. Each time you face what could be taken away, you see more clearly what is still yours to love.