Stoic Practices: Voluntary Discomfort
When I first started walking, about two years ago, a single mile was a challenge. I carried the weight, literally and figuratively, of years of unhealthy habits, and every step felt like resistance. What began as an experiment in movement felt closer to punishment. My legs ached, my lungs burned, and the Florida humidity clung to me.
Now, I walk nearly every morning. More than two miles has become routine, and on good days, I stretch past three or even four. The same walk that once left me exhausted now leaves me thoughtful. It has become part exercise, part classroom, part prayer. I listen to audiobooks or podcasts, or sometimes I let the rhythm of my breath do the talking. What began in discomfort has become one of the most rewarding habits of my life.
That transformation captures the heart of a Stoic practice known as voluntary discomfort. The Stoics believed that to prepare for life’s unavoidable hardships, we should occasionally face small ones by choice. To deny ourselves comfort is not self-punishment. It is a rehearsal.
The Roman philosopher Musonius Rufus, sometimes called the Roman Socrates, wrote that “we do not practice virtue if we live luxuriously.” He taught his students that hardship is not a curse but a training ground for the soul. “To be good,” he said, “we must train in the things that are difficult.” The practice was simple: eat plain food, tolerate the cold, sleep on the ground. Learn what you can endure. The goal was not to seek pain but to remember how little we truly need.
Seneca echoed that lesson in Letters to Lucilius: “Set aside a certain number of days during which you shall be content with the scantiest and cheapest fare, with coarse and rough dress, saying to yourself all the while, is this the condition that I feared?” He was teaching courage through familiarity. If you have already lived with less, loss will not terrify you.
Modern psychology gives weight to what the Stoics knew intuitively. Controlled exposure to mild stress, known as hormetic stress, can build physical and emotional resilience. Cold water immersion, fasting, and intense exercise all trigger adaptive responses in the brain and body. Stanford neuroscientist Andrew Huberman describes this as “training the nervous system to remain calm under conditions of strain.” It is not the stress itself that strengthens us but the calm we learn to maintain in its presence.
That calm was exactly what Epictetus meant when he said, “Difficulties show what men are.” Epictetus, once enslaved and later one of the great Stoic teachers, believed that our true freedom lies in how we respond to what happens to us. Discomfort becomes a mirror. It shows us where our fears live.
For me, those first long walks were my mirror. They revealed how quickly I gave in to fatigue and self-doubt, how easily I reached for excuses. I wanted to skip the hard part and still get the benefit. But by staying with the discomfort, by walking through it rather than around it, I learned something steadying. The pain never lasted as long as the story I told myself about it.
Over time, the physical reward was clear. I lost weight, regained energy, and found myself in the best health of my adult life. But the deeper reward was the quiet discipline that grew along the way. Every morning walk became a small lesson in endurance, and later, in gratitude. It became time for learning and morning reflection.
Marcus Aurelius wrote, “The impediment to action advances action. What stands in the way becomes the way.” Voluntary discomfort is the act of choosing the impediment, not to suffer for its own sake but to reclaim power from fear. It turns resistance into a teacher.
Oliver Burkeman, in his book Four Thousand Weeks, writes about the futility of trying to escape life’s limits. He calls it “the limit-embracing life.” His conclusion echoes Marcus: “There isn’t a version of life that involves not sacrificing. The question is, which sacrifice are you prepared to make?” Burkeman’s insight reminds me that comfort often asks for its own sacrifice, the sacrifice of growth.
Modern Stoic writer Donald Robertson calls voluntary discomfort “training for life’s storms.” We cannot predict when adversity will come, but we can practice meeting it with steadiness. A cold shower or a skipped meal may seem trivial, yet they remind the mind that it can endure unpleasantness without panic. Each small rehearsal strengthens the habit of composure.
Practicing Voluntary Discomfort
The practice does not require heroic acts. It begins with simple, deliberate choices that remind us how capable we are.
- Choose minor hardships on purpose. Walk when you could drive. Climb the stairs instead of taking the elevator. Leave the umbrella behind on a light-rain morning and let yourself get damp.
- Simplify your food. Eat plain meals a few times a week. Skip snacks or dessert. Notice that hunger is temporary and that satisfaction does not depend on constant fullness.
- Step away from convenience. Spend a day without air conditioning, hot water, or headphones. Allow quiet or discomfort to surface and see what it teaches.
- Give up control for a moment. Let a friend choose the restaurant. Go a day without checking the clock or phone. Notice the unease of not directing every detail.
- Reflect afterward. Ask yourself what the experience revealed. Did you feel calmer than expected? More grateful afterward? The reflection completes the exercise and turns endurance into wisdom.
These small acts are not about denial but preparation. They remind us that comfort is a privilege, not a guarantee, and that peace of mind does not depend on having everything just right.
There is freedom in that. When we train ourselves to be content with less, we become harder to disturb. We discover that pleasure is sweeter when it is not constant, and that gratitude grows best in the soil of simplicity.
Marcus reminded himself, “A man’s true delight is to do the things he was made for.” Discomfort brings us back to that truth. It strips away distraction until we find the part of ourselves that can act with courage, patience, and kindness, even when the path is rough.
When I walk now, I still meet moments of resistance, the pull to stay inside, or the soreness that whispers to turn back early. But I also know what waits on the other side. The rhythm of my steps steadies my thoughts. The air clears my mind. I finish stronger than when I began.
Voluntary discomfort has taught me that comfort, while pleasant, can become a kind of captivity. The Stoics sought liberation not by avoiding difficulty but by mastering their response to it. Seneca wrote, “A gem cannot be polished without friction, nor a man perfected without trials.” Every mile I walk is a reminder of that truth. The road is not always smooth, but it leads somewhere better, toward a kind of peace that cannot be bought, only earned.
