Thinking Our Way to Character

This entry is part 49 of 50 in the series Journey Through Stoicism

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.

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Stoic Practices: Negative Visualization

This entry is part 48 of 50 in the series Journey Through Stoicism
This entry is part 1 of 2 in the series Stoicism Practices

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.

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Practicing Memento Mori: Learning to Live by Remembering Death

This entry is part 45 of 50 in the 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.

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Stoic Practices: Morning Reflection

This entry is part 42 of 50 in the series Journey Through Stoicism

The mornings came first as exercise. Two years ago, I started walking for my health, beginning with just a few blocks at a time. I carried extra weight then, 187 pounds of it, to be exact. The plan was simple: move more, eat better, and feel less tired. What I didn’t expect was that those early walks would become something much deeper. They began with music, everything from Sousa marches to soft piano covers. Later, I switched to audiobooks to make the walks more productive. But as my life began to shift in other ways, I started walking in silence. In that quiet, something changed. My thoughts began to stretch out and organize themselves.

It became a kind of morning meditation. And like most good accidents, it only later revealed its purpose. I realized that what I was doing was practicing a Stoic exercise—the morning reflection. The Stoics began each day by preparing the mind for the world ahead, anticipating difficulties, and setting a moral compass. Two thousand years later, science affirms what they knew: that a few deliberate minutes at dawn can redirect an entire day.

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Stoic Practices: Attention to the Present Moment

This entry is part 41 of 50 in the series Journey Through Stoicism

Attention does not have to be grand or mystical. It can be a high-school band, thirty students and a tuba, finding themselves perfectly in tune for a few minutes. It can be a quiet morning at The Portico, folding a tablet closed to listen to a man just released from prison. The Stoics called this prosoche—the discipline of attention—and believed it was the core of a good life. When we show up fully in the small moments, we discover what Marcus Aurelius meant when he said the present is the only thing that truly belongs to us.

Modern life makes this harder. Our phones, notifications, and meetings tempt us to drift through our days in fragments. Yet each act of genuine presence pushes back against that fragmentation. In a distracted world, paying attention is an act of resistance and of love. It is how we reclaim the texture of our days and rediscover the quiet pulse of a life well lived.

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