Series: Journey Through Stoicism

We spend much of our lives pretending we have endless time. The Stoics knew better. Memento Mori—remember that you will die—was not a grim command but a call to live awake. Modern science now confirms what they intuited: when people recognize their days are finite, they become calmer, kinder, and more grateful.

In this new essay, I explore how ancient philosophy and modern psychology meet on common ground. From Seneca to Stanford researcher Laura Carstensen, the message is the same: awareness of mortality can make life richer, not smaller. Read Memento Mori: Learning to Live by Remembering Death.

Some people quietly shape the way we see the world. Some do it by teaching. Others, simply by being there year after year, when life tests our convictions. The Stoics believed that friendship was a form of moral training and that mentorship was the art of walking beside someone as they learn to live well.

In this essay, I reflect on five people who changed the course of my life. They were friends and mentors whose presence became a daily lesson in philosophy. Their stories align with the wisdom of Seneca, Epictetus, and Marcus Aurelius, as well as with the insights of modern science, proving what the ancients already knew: that deep connection is essential to a good life.

The Stoics called these relationships “friends of virtue.” Today, we call them the people who help us become who we’re meant to be.

When I first began walking, one mile was a struggle. Every step was an argument between my will and my comfort. Over time, those miles became my teacher. What the Stoics called voluntary discomfort is not self-denial but a rehearsal for life’s inevitable hardships. When we choose minor difficulties—a plain meal, a long walk, a day without convenience—we remind ourselves that peace does not depend on comfort. Each act of endurance builds calm, gratitude, and freedom.

What if imagining loss could make life feel fuller, not darker? The Stoics called it premeditatio malorum—the quiet practice of picturing what could go wrong, not to suffer in advance, but to steady the heart for when it does.

In this new essay, I write about sitting beside my mother near the end of her life, and later facing my own health scare. Both moments taught me that rehearsing misfortune isn’t about fear. It’s about gratitude. The kind that comes from realizing how much you already have.

Our thoughts are not just passing moods or fleeting opinions. They are the architects of our character. They are the hidden builders of who we become. James Allen said it more than a century ago: “A man is literally what he thinks.” The Stoics would have nodded in agreement. The Apostle Paul might have, too. Each taught that transformation begins not with circumstance, but with the mind’s quiet work of shaping how we see, judge, and act.
In Thinking Our Way to Character, I explore how Allen’s moral vision aligns with Stoic and Christian wisdom, and how both still hold up under the weight of modern life. Through philosophy, faith, and a bit of neuroscience, the essay looks at how disciplined thought turns daily struggle into purpose. If you’ve ever wondered whether we can truly think our way toward peace, purpose, and resilience, this one’s worth the read.

I grew up with death in the next room. My father managed a funeral home, and for a time our family lived in a small apartment above it. Most kids grew up with kitchen noise and television. I grew up with the quiet hum of grief drifting through the walls. I did not think much about it at the time, but it shaped how I see life. It also shaped how I understand endings. Later, I buried friends during the AIDS crisis. I cared for one of them in my home until he died. Those years taught me that death does not wait for a convenient moment. It just arrives.

The Stoics understood this impulse to drift into denial. They practiced rehearsing death so they could return to what mattered. The practice does not pull you toward fear. It pulls you toward clarity. In my own life, the deaths of family and friends have reminded me of this same truth. We do not control the length of our days. We control how we use the ones we have. If you want to read more about how the practice shaped my own path through grief, transition, and aging, you can find the full essay here.