Grief is a storm that never quite leaves; it lingers in the spaces between breaths. It’s in the way my chest tightens at unexpected memories and in the quiet moments where everything feels a little too loud. For the longest time, I felt like I was adrift, grasping at anything that might pull me out of the storm’s grip. I reached for explanations, for distractions, for something to anchor me—but nothing held. It wasn’t until I stumbled upon the quiet strength of stoicism that something shifted within me, like finding a small light in the fog.
The First Encounter
I can’t pinpoint the exact moment stoicism came into my life—it was more of a slow introduction, a whisper rather than a declaration. It began with a quote from Marcus Aurelius that my friend had casually mentioned just before his death: “You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.” At first, despite the fact that Marcus Aurelius’s “Meditations” is a book I’ve had in my library, and referred to often, for the better part of two decades, the words felt foreign in my mouth, like speaking a language I wasn’t fluent in. “What power?” I wondered. How could I control my mind when grief felt like an unstoppable force?
But slowly, almost unintentionally, I began repeating those words to myself after he died, especially on days when grief hit harder. I didn’t fully understand what they meant then, but they seemed to offer me a sense of distance from the chaos, like a reminder that while I couldn’t control the storm outside, I could learn to steady the trembling within.
A Gentle Anchor in a Turbulent Sea
There’s a calmness that comes with accepting the storm, I’ve found. I remember the first time I practiced amor fati—the love of one’s fate. It’s not just about enduring what happens but embracing it as part of my journey, as something that belongs to me. On days when I felt swallowed by grief, instead of resisting the sadness or pretending it didn’t exist, I began to accept it with a kind of gentle curiosity.
“What can this teach me?” I’d ask myself, not out of a desire to find meaning in pain but simply to honor it. In those quiet moments, when the shadow of loss would loom over me, amor fati became a soft reminder that grief wasn’t an intruder but a part of my experience—a companion with its lessons. This wasn’t resignation; it was learning to breathe through the heaviness, to find small spaces of grace in the midst of it.
The Practice of Letting Go
One of the hardest things I had to learn was that acceptance doesn’t mean giving up. For a long time, I fought the idea of letting go because I thought it meant I didn’t care enough. I clung to my pain because it felt like a connection to what I had lost. But over time, I began to see that acceptance wasn’t about detachment; it was about releasing the grip I had on trying to change the unchangeable.
I realized grief wasn’t something to be beaten or won over, but something to coexist with. Accepting what I could not change allowed me to release the tension I carried in my body—my shoulders loosened, my jaw unclenched. The storm was still there, but I was no longer lost within it. The words of Epictetus rang in my mind: “It’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters.” And in letting go of the need to control the uncontrollable, I found a new kind of peace—a gentler way to move through the pain.
A Warm Reflection
Reflecting on this journey feels like sharing a quiet conversation, a way of holding space for both grief and gratitude. And maybe, that’s what healing really is—learning to be gentle with the storms we carry. Grief is a part of me, and that will never change. But stoicism has softened its edges, making it more of a companion I can sit with rather than an enemy I must conquer. I still have moments when the storm feels too strong, but now I know that I don’t have to fight it; I just need to find my breath and steady myself. Stoicism hasn’t erased my grief, but it’s made it softer—a companion I can sit with rather than an enemy I must conquer. And in this, I’ve found a gentler way to live through the storm.
What gentle anchors do you hold onto in your storm? Sometimes, the things that save us are the ones that whisper rather than shout—the practices that offer quiet companionship rather than grand solutions. Wherever you are in your journey, I hope you find your gentle anchor, and that it holds you steady when the waves swell.
The Twin Tree Project 