Rooted and Consequential: Stoic Wisdom for Life’s Transitions
In a recent sermon titled Trusting God in Life’s Transitions, my pastor, Rev. Magrey deVega, offered a line that I had to write down: “Actions without contemplation are unrooted, and contemplation without action is inconsequential.”
It struck me not just as a beautiful piece of insight but as something Marcus Aurelius might have jotted into Meditations. In just a few words, it captured one of the most profound truths of Stoic thought: that wisdom is nothing if it isn’t lived, and action is empty if it isn’t guided by thoughtful intent.
For me, this landed in the middle of a personal storm. I find myself in a significant life transition. I’ve been warned of a likely layoff. My company is a federal contractor, and with contracts drying up, so might my role. While I’ve technically reached retirement age, I’m still eight months shy of qualifying for my full benefits age. I love what I do. I’m healthy and engaged, and I still have more to offer. But I’m also not as financially prepared as I wish I were. And I know painfully well the ageism that exists in the job market. It’s a lot to sit with.
Stoic philosophy offers a word for balancing thought and action: praxis. It isn’t enough to think clearly—we must act, and it isn’t enough to act decisively—we must think. Epictetus taught that philosophy is not something you talk about; it’s something you do. “Don’t explain your philosophy,” he wrote. “Embody it.”
That’s the work I’m doing now. I’m not just journaling my fears and insights but letting those pages shape what I do next. I’m not just exercising to stay active, but using that motion as a reminder that I’m still moving forward. My days now feel like an ongoing conversation between contemplation and action, between stillness and motion, between uncertainty and faith.
The first half of Rev. deVega’s quote—actions without contemplation are unrooted—feels especially personal. As the temptation rises to scramble, to panic-apply for jobs, to rush into “doing something,” I’m reminded that not all motion is progress.
Marcus Aurelius urged, “Nowhere you can go is more peaceful—more free of interruptions—than your own soul.“ Thoughtful action begins with presence, reflection, and listening. So I journal, walk, and let the fears surface, but I don’t let them steer me.
Modern philosopher Viktor Frankl said this: “Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.”
That space is contemplation, and I’m learning to dwell in it, even when uncomfortable.
Of course, we cannot live in that space forever. Eventually, contemplation must become movement. Contemplation without action is inconsequential. If I journal endlessly and never send out a resume, that’s fear masquerading as wisdom. Action is a kind of courage, especially now.
I know the odds. I know the market. However, I also know that I have value that a LinkedIn algorithm can’t capture. I’ve lived. I’ve led. I’ve built things that mattered. And maybe the next chapter won’t look like the last one—but it still counts.
Brené Brown writes, “You can choose courage or you can choose comfort. But you cannot choose both.” So, I’m choosing courage—slowly, deliberately, one decision at a time. What’s hardest about life transitions is that the road forward isn’t well-lit. There’s no guarantee, no clean arc. But the Stoics remind us that the obstacle is the way.
If this layoff happens, I’ll grieve the loss, but I’ll also listen to what it might be making room for.
If I struggle to find work, I’ll resist the urge to see that as a reflection of my worth. I’ll try to remember what Marcus Aurelius wrote: “Just that you do the right thing. The rest doesn’t matter.” And if I find something new, something unexpected, I hope I’ll have the wisdom to recognize it not as a compromise but as a calling of a different kind.
Because contemplation and action are not opposites. They are dance partners.
So I’ll keep walking. Keep writing. Keep paying attention. Some days, I’ll act. On other days, I’ll reflect. And in that rhythm, I’ll find my balance.
And that, as Rev. deVega so wisely said, is how we live lives that are both rooted and consequential.
