Series: Journey Through Stoicism

What if freedom isn’t about control, but about cooperation with the deeper order of things? Inspired by Cleanthes’ timeless Stoic insight, this essay explores how fate doesn’t force us—it invites us. Whether guided or dragged, the choice is ours.

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. But then came Wednesday: quieter, aimless, still. No appointments. No Teams meetings. No urgent tasks. Just me, in a room that felt too quiet.

This piece began with a line from Carl Jung I read, which surfaced something I hadn’t yet put into words: “Loneliness does not come from having no people around you, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to you.”  Based on my reading in Stoicism, it seemed to fit with the thoughts of some of the Stoics. I’ve been thinking about what it means to remain engaged, to keep doing meaningful work, and still feel a growing distance from close friendships. This is a quiet reflection on that kind of loneliness, not isolation exactly, but a thinning of connection. A longing for the kind of relationships where nothing important has to be explained.

In a time of political unrest, personal uncertainty, and social fracture, the ancient Stoic idea of Amor Fati — to love one’s fate — offers a powerful challenge. Not to surrender to injustice, but to meet it with clarity, courage, and compassion. This essay reflects on the tension between acceptance and action, drawing on Marcus Aurelius, the Serenity Prayer, and a timely conversation with Rev. Justin LaRosa to explore how we can live fully and faithfully in the world we have, not just the one we wish for.

Your first thought might be: One more warrior is exactly what we do not need in this moment. The world feels overrun with conflict already. But what if the kind of warrior we need now is not one who fights for dominance or control, but one who stands calmly for conscience, who chooses clarity over chaos and courage over comfort? That is the kind of warrior Robert Reich wrote about — a woman on the front lines of immigration defense, who meets injustice not with rage, but with a quiet joy rooted in purpose. Her story holds a lesson as old as the Stoics and as current as the morning’s headlines.

This reflection is part of the ongoing “Stoicism Journey” series, which explores how ancient Stoic principles can offer clarity, strength, and moral direction in today’s world. Each piece connects Stoic thought to real-life challenges, often intersecting with faith, justice, and the pursuit of a meaningful life. In this installment, we respond to a story shared by Robert Reich, considering what it means to be a warrior for justice in dishonorable times.

“Lewis did not need a theory of justice. He lived one.”
Five years after the death of Congressman John Lewis, his words and witness still call us to the hard, necessary work of moral courage. Drawing from Christian theology, the Black church, and the discipline of nonviolence, Lewis embodied a philosophy of action that mirrors the core of Stoic thought—and resonates just as deeply with the teachings of Judaism, Islam, and Buddhism. He did not merely protest injustice. He met it with clarity, hope, and a soul unshaken by cruelty. His legacy extends beyond American history. It is human wisdom.

I came across a meme that read, “There are two places you need to go often: The place that heals you. The place that inspires you.” It struck me deeply, because for me, one of those places is Boone, North Carolina, where I went to college. But as I reflected on that idea through the lens of Stoic philosophy, I realized the Stoics might offer a very different kind of guidance: to go inward. This essay explores the contrast, and surprising harmony, between modern healing and ancient inner retreat.

Sometimes the worst defeats are the ones you didn’t cause but still feel responsible for. A job ends. A friendship slips away. You tell yourself it wasn’t your fault, but that doesn’t stop the questions. Maya Angelou once wrote that defeat might be necessary—not because we deserve it, but because it reveals who we really are. This essay reflects on regret and unexpected renewal through the lens of Stoic thought and lived experience. What you rise from, it turns out, may be the truest part of you.

I didn’t go looking for Stoicism. It showed up in fortune cookies, old sermons, Facebook posts, and a quiet reply from my pastor. This essay reflects on the strange, almost fated path that led me to Stoic thought, even before I had a name for it. From “My Creed” to Admiral Stockdale to John Lewis, these moments formed a pattern I couldn’t ignore. Maybe it’s true what Public TV personality Bob Ross said about “happy little accidents.” This was one of them.

On an early morning walk, I queued up a podcast to pass the miles. By the time I’d finished mowing the lawn a few hours later, I was hearing my own life in a new way. Psychologist Jonathan Adler was explaining how the stories we tell about ourselves can either close our world or open it. Redemption stories, he said, often lead to hope and growth. Contamination stories do the opposite.

It sounded strikingly familiar. The Stoics taught that we cannot control what happens, but we can control the meaning we give it. Their nightly reflections were, in a way, acts of storytelling—choosing which moments to carry forward and how to frame them. Modern psychology and ancient philosophy were meeting in the same place, and I realized I’d been practicing this without knowing it.

We may not get to choose every plot twist, but we can decide how to tell the tale. And that choice might just shape the life we live next.

We’ve all had days we wish we could do over — moments of frustration, things said too quickly, or chances missed. At night, the mind often replays them with no resolution. The Stoics gave us another way. The practice of Evening Reflection invites us to examine the day with honesty, take note of our missteps and our better moments, and prepare to live more intentionally tomorrow. It’s simple, quiet, and backed by modern science. You don’t need special tools — just a few minutes and a willingness to learn from your own life.