I Revisited Stoicism 6 Years After I First Heard of it. Here’s what I (Re)Learned.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Stoicism lately, and how over the past few years—maybe over the pandemic—I feel that I have lost touch with this philosophy.

I’m thinking about it again now as I’m stuck on a plane at the airport. Due to the bad weather, we’re on Red Lightning Alert, so all ground operations have been suspended, all planes parked wherever they are on the tarmac have to stay put.

By the looks of it, we might be stuck here for a while, so I decide to take this as an opportunity to write. “Amor fati,” I think to myself, “this might be exactly what I needed.” I guess the Stoicism never leaves, it just pops out when it’s needed.

What is Stoicism?

I first heard of Stoicism six years ago during the hardcore self-development, read-all-the-books, optimize-everything, can’t-not-be-productive phase of my life. Just like most people my age, I learned of this philosophy through author Ryan Holiday via one of Tim Ferriss’ books or podcast interviews.

Ferriss describes it as a “no-nonsense system designed to produce dramatic real-world effects. Think of it as an ideal operating system for thriving in high-stress environments.”

“It’s a cheat code for life,” I would say to my friends as I introduced it to them over dinner or some drinks, “Legit, you should try it!” In hindsight, I realize now how annoying that might have been to some people.

I remember reading the Daily Stoic for every day of 2019. Despite it being the year before the pandemic began, that was a bad year for me. Stoicism didn’t solve my problems, but the perspective it offered me made bearing the weight of it all much easier, and even rewarding at times.

Recently, I’ve come to realize that my relationship with this operating system had been lacking.

Only when disaster hit did I look to it for wisdom. Only when things were bad did I remember its virtues. I’m learning that it isn’t just a response to difficulty. It’s a proactive way of living, and the more it incubated in my head, the more evolved my understanding of it became.

Basically, the whole premise of Stoicism is that we don’t control virtually everything that goes on in the world, but we do control our actions and our thoughts. Mind and will. There are a number of virtues and aphorisms that go along with this premise but I’d narrow it down to two that seem to be the most tattooed on people’s skins—and rightfully so:

Amor Fati and Memento Mori. The one-two punch of Stoicism.

“My formula for greatness in a human being is amor fati: that one wants nothing to be different, not forward, not backward, not in all eternity. Not merely bear what is necessary, still less conceal it… but love it,” said philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche.

This is Amor Fati—love of fate. Good or bad, accept it. Love it.

Last weekend, I was at the beach with some friends. In one of our more serious conversations, we agreed that the universe made no mistakes, but our mistake as human beings is thinking otherwise. We resist the flow of reality. We interpret it some other way. We make things harder for ourselves. Very un-amor fati of us.

The universe makes no mistakes. How do I know this for sure?

Because whatever that has happened is what happened. Not its opposite, not the thing we wanted to happen, not the thing we were afraid of. I used to firmly hold on to the message of Paulo Cuelho’s The Alchemist, that the universe conspires in our favor, but I don’t think this is always the case.

I think, reality is indifferent. After all, good or bad is subjective. When it rains, the farmer is happy, but the commuter suffers. On what basis does the universe favor one over the other?

We can’t prove whether or not something was predestined to happen, but when reality stares at us, it screams, “This is what’s meant to happen. Why? Because this is what happened.” Regardless of the cause or reason, the fact of an event is all that really matters. There is no negotiating with reality, there is only flowing with its waves.

Amor fati—I would remember when things look bleak.

But it’s becoming more and more obvious to me that amor fati isn’t just for the bad moments. It’s for every moment.

It’s a state of grateful, present, proactive being. And every moment in our short lives deserves it.

Because death is the destination we all share.

And that’s the second bit: Memento mori—remember you must die.

Stoicism teaches us that this isn’t a depressing reminder but an empowering one. It is precisely because our time here is limited that we must live more fully, love more deeply, and “prepare our minds as if we’d come to the very end of life,” said Seneca, “Let us postpone nothing. Let us balance life’s books each day. … The one who puts the finishing touches on their life each day is never short of time.”

Recently, I came across another Seneca quote that blew me away and completely recalibrated my view of death:

“This is our big mistake, to think we look forward to death; most of death is already gone, whatever time has passed is owned by death.”

The oft forgotten corollary to the fact of our deaths is the permanence of what has already been. Reality writes in permanent ink. When we take our final breath, this marks the end of a life, but death didn’t happen in a second. Seneca reminds us, it happens every second.

I feel this heaviest during the last few days before leaving a certain place. This has been my story for the past 10 years, ever since I left my hometown for college in 2013. It’s been a decade of school away from home, then work away from home, then online school back at home, and now school away from the country, which also means a decade of catch-up dinners and farewell drinks, of “when did you get back?” and “when do you leave?”

I never really know when a catch-up—with a former colleague or a friend from high school or a current schoolmate or with family—is the last one. This is true for everyone, of course. And although it’s usually the big goodbyes that really stick with us, we can’t forget the little ones. A majority of our lives are made of the little, mundane moments.

I think of the places I will never visit again, the groups of friends that will never all be in one place again, the fact that this exact set of circumstances will be gone once the next moment arrives.

Memento mori. Not only must we remember that we will die one day, but more so that we—and the moments we live through—are dying as this is written and as you read this.

I’d like to think that with every mini death comes a tiny rebirth, a reminder that death isn’t the end. We are constantly presented with a chance to renew and begin. What has gone is final but it’s not necessarily the final say. The last time I checked, life is still for living.

If there is no negotiating with reality, there is at least influencing how it unfolds moving ahead. Such is the dialogue between amor fati and memento mori. I’ve always put these two side by side, as a pair. It’s only now that I understand why.

One comes after the other.

Amor fati reminds us to look at reality, accept the past and take stock of the present.

“To want nothing to be different,” because no other reality exists apart from the current one.

Memento mori, on the other hand, responds to that with its own reminder: Whatever action we take as a response, there is no taking it back, they belong with death now.

So we respond with virtue, with courage, wisdom, temperance, justice. “Balance life’s books each day.”

And it continues as this cycle of accepting the consequences of those permanent actions and responding to those consequences, and so on.

Life goes on like this.

I believe this to be the basic framework behind all the complexities of living. And our job is to flow with it—accept and act and accept and act and accept. And eventually maybe the acceptance and the action, with practice, matures into love and intention, so that every passing moment is faced with love and every move towards the future, intended.

I would die happily after having lived in such a manner.