Oh, The Stories We Tell Ourselves
Ten Lessons in Living Well
Many years back, a friend did something for me that I’ll always remember. It was a small gesture of love and acceptance, but it came at a time I needed it most. Nothing about it was dramatic. I doubt M even thought much about it afterward, which made it even more special. He responded naturally, without hesitation or judgment, and that memory has stayed with me.
As the years went by, we slowly lost touch. I tried to reconnect from time to time, sending a message here and there, but rarely heard back. Eventually, I started to wonder if I’d done something to upset him. I couldn’t think of anything specific, but that didn’t stop me from imagining reasons. Maybe something I said was misunderstood, or maybe I let him down somehow. I worried about losing a friendship that had meant so much to me.
The odd thing is, I had no proof that any of my worries were true. All I really had was his silence, and my mind had supplied the rest.
Eventually, I sent him a more personal note. I apologized if I had ever hurt or offended him, and I told him how much his kindness years ago had meant to me. I wanted him to know that, no matter what had happened, I was still grateful for what he’d given me.
When he replied, I felt both relieved and sad. He assured me I‘d done anything wrong. He had just pulled back from most personal contact and was mostly talking to people who managed his businesses and finances. I thanked him for getting back to me, wished him well, and told him he’d always be an important friend. He wrote again, saying that if he ever decided to “raise his head,” he’d reach out.
I respected his wishes and left it at that. Then, several months ago, he emailed me. He gave me a life update and shared some very personal, touching news. I was grateful he trusted me with it. I don’t know if we’ll ever have a big reunion, but his message showed me that our friendship still matters to him. I’m happy to let him decide if and when we talk again.
Looking back, I see how much time I spent worrying about something I didn’t really understand. Over time, I came up with reasons for his silence, and the more I thought about them, the more real they seemed. My concern was genuine, but I let a guess turn into something bigger than the facts supported.
This reminded me of something Epictetus taught almost 2,000 years ago. In the Enchiridion, he said that people are upset by their judgments about events, not by the events themselves. He knew how quickly our minds try to make sense of what happens, often before we really know what it means. He told his students to look closely at their first impressions before believing them.
“Men are disturbed not by things, but by the views which they take of things.” Epictetus, Enchiridion, Section 5
It’s easy to brush off advice from someone who lived almost 2,000 years ago. After all, Epictetus never had to deal with unanswered emails, texts, or the strange worry that comes from waiting for a reply. Still, modern psychology has found real value in his ideas. Albert Ellis, who helped start modern cognitive therapy, said Epictetus influenced his work. Aaron Beck later developed cognitive behavioral therapy, which teaches people to notice and question the assumptions that shape their feelings and actions.
Recent research shows these methods can help people manage anxiety and ongoing worry. A 2023 review in JAMA Psychiatry looked at 65 studies with over 5,000 people and found strong support for cognitive behavioral therapy for generalized anxiety disorder. While that doesn’t prove every Stoic idea, it does show the value of checking our thoughts before treating them as facts.
It seems those old Stoics were onto something. We might do well to listen to them now and then, even if they never had to wonder why someone didn’t reply to an email.
What I find most interesting is how hard this practice gets when emotions are involved. When a friendship or relationship really matters, not knowing what’s going on can be especially hard. We want answers, and our minds are quick to make them up. Modern psychology calls this mind reading and catastrophizing. We think we know what someone else is thinking, or we imagine the worst about something we don’t understand. If we do this often enough, those thoughts start to feel more real than they should.
The Stoics suggest a way to break that cycle. We can stop and think about what we actually know, whether our ideas have any proof, and if there’s anything helpful we can do. Sometimes that means asking a question or having a tough conversation. Other times, we just have to accept that we simply don’t know.
I wish I’d been better at seeing that difference during the years I wondered about my friend. I could have realized his silence might have had many reasons. I could have reached out with care and honesty without first thinking I needed to apologize. Of course, it’s easier to see that now than it was to do it then.
It’s worth remembering that the thoughts that trouble us most often come from things we care about deeply. My worry about M came from affection and gratitude for a friendship that mattered to me. I wouldn’t want to lose that ability to care, even if it sometimes makes me worry. I’m learning to notice when my concern takes me beyond what I actually know.
His recent message reminded me how easy it is to misunderstand when we only know part of someone else’s story. I’m grateful for his friendship, for the kindness he showed me years ago, and for the trust he showed by writing again. I don’t know when I’ll hear from him next, but I’m comfortable leaving that decision with him.
There will always be questions we can’t answer in our relationships and in life. Epictetus knew how quickly the mind tries to fill in the blanks, even without enough information. I’ll probably keep making that mistake sometimes. But maybe I can get a little better at noticing when a thought deserves my attention, and when it’s already taken too much.
