Rehearsing Virtue in Small Daily Acts
Following a morning event at The Portico in downtown Tampa, I moved to the café to work for a while. The air carried the usual hum and clatter of a busy space. I opened my laptop and settled in. A few people remained in the event hall for another meeting. One of them, a City Council member and friend, came in to tell me a man had just walked through the doors. He said he had just been released from prison, had nowhere to go, and didn’t know what to do next.
The Portico’s managers were out for a few minutes, so I went with my friend and invited the man into the café. He was restless, his hands trembling slightly. I think perhaps a little scared and feeling overwhelmed. I offered him a cup of coffee. He refused at first, saying he had no money. I told him I was buying. He hesitated, then nodded. We sat together while we waited for someone to return who could help him.
He told his story in fragments. I didn’t have any wisdom to offer. I just listened and tried to keep my expression calm so he would feel steady ground in front of him. When the manager returned, she connected him with services and told him where he could find immediate shelter and food.
That was all. I went back to my table, finished my coffee, and opened the laptop again. Nothing about the moment was dramatic or exceptional. But later, when I thought about it, it stayed with me. There was something about simply sitting still, about giving someone my full attention for a few minutes, that felt both ordinary and profound. Compassion doesn’t always mean solving a problem. Sometimes it means giving another person a small patch of calm in which to breathe.
Some time back, I had another experience. My next-door neighbor, who has lived alone for many years since her husband’s death, was at her mailbox when I walked out to get mine. She told me her daughter in Alabama had just learned she was cancer-free, and her husband didn’t seem interested in “celebrating.” I told my neighbor it certainly sounded like a reason to celebrate. Then I invited her to join my husband and me for our usual Taco Tuesday dinner. I told her she could celebrate for her daughter. She accepted. That evening turned into a simple, happy meal shared among friends. A day or two later, she told me how much it had meant to her.
These were small things. Neither required planning nor courage. They were moments of attention, each one a quiet rehearsal of compassion.
The Stoics taught that virtue is not a theory but a practice. Marcus Aurelius reminded himself that philosophy only matters when it changes how you live among other people. Seneca wrote that the good person is one “who helps the unfortunate, who is kind to all.” And Epictetus urged his students to focus not on grand displays of virtue but on the discipline of choice. What he called prohairesis is the moral will that guides every action within our control.
I think of these moments, the man at The Portico, my neighbor at the mailbox, as small tests of that moral will. Each offered a chance to choose how I would respond. I could have looked away and gone back to my work. But I didn’t. I paused, listened, and shared a little time. That pause, I’ve come to believe, is where virtue begins. It is that breath we consciously take when we feel that rising anger at someone (or some thing), or that moment we realize we need to stop and pay attention to the person in front of us.
Massimo Pigliucci, a modern Stoic philosopher, describes the daily cultivation of character as “training for the person you want to be.” That phrase rings true to me. My own, almost accidental study of Stoicism has become less about reading or quoting and more about practicing. Each day offers dozens of small opportunities to train the moral reflex: the moment before speaking sharply, the decision to listen longer, the willingness to help without being asked.
I try to remember a lesson from Gail Honeymoon, “Sometimes, you simply needed someone kind to sit with you while you dealt with things.” I’ve been the person who needs someone, so I also try to be the kind person who sits with others.
I’m far from perfect at this. Some days, I rush past those chances. But on the days when I notice them and act on them, I feel a steadiness that can be rare. Whether the day turns out good or bad, I can stay on an even keel. That balance doesn’t make life easy. It just keeps me from tipping over so quickly when things go wrong. It leaves room for kindness to find a way through.
The Stoics believed we become what we repeatedly do. Marcus wrote that a person’s worth is measured by what they turn their attention to. If that’s true, then every act of attention, no matter how small, is a rehearsal for the kind of person we are becoming. Listening to a stranger over coffee. Sharing dinner with a disappointed neighbor. Remembering that each of us carries invisible burdens and quiet joys.
When I think back on those moments, I don’t feel pride. What I feel is gratitude. An appreciation for the presence life gave me to act rather than turn away. Compassion, like patience or courage, grows only by practice. These small rehearsals are how we learn to keep our hearts open when the world would rather we harden them.
So I keep trying. The world keeps giving me opportunities. Some are small, like a conversation at a café. Others are quieter still. It’s a kind word, a calm breath, a bit of patience with someone who is struggling. Each one is another line in the daily script of a life practiced with care.
Rehearsing virtue rarely feels like heroism, but often, it feels like being a human and paying attention.
