…and apply philosophy too to important things

A vase falling, a taxi slipping away just before you reach it, a sudden loss of hot water... In the previous article, we explored the small things of everyday life, those seemingly trivial details where Stoic philosophy truly comes alive. Now,
let’s turn to the big things in life: loss, injustice, death, fate. The ones that shake us, unsettle us, and spare no one.

Let’s return to the passage from Epictetus I shared with you in the previous article—this time, in its full and uncut version.

“With everything which entertains you, is useful, or of which you are fond, remember to say to yourself, beginning with the very least things, "What is its nature?"
If you are fond of a jug, say, "I am fond of a jug";
for when it is broken you will not be disturbed.
If you kiss your own child or wife, say to yourself that you are kissing a human being;
for when it dies you will not be disturbed.” ¹

In the second part, he speaks of being ready for the final departure of a loved one.
Later, he insists:

“Never say about anything,
‘I have lost it,’ but only ‘I have given it back.’
Is your child dead? It has been given back.
Is your wife dead? She has been given back.
‘I have had my farm taken away.’
Very well, this too has been given back.
‘Yet it was a rascal who took it away.’
But what concern is it of yours by whose instrumentality the Giver called for its return? So long as He gives it you, take care of it as of a thing that is not your own, as travellers treat their inn.” ²

And even further on:

“If you make it your will that your children and your wife and your friends should live for ever, you are silly; for you are making it your will that things not under your control should be under your control, and that what is not your own should be your own. In the same way, too, if you make it your will that your slave-boy be free from faults, you are a fool; for you are making it your will that vice be not vice, but something else. If, however, it is your will not to fail in what you desire, this is in your power.” ³

Here, Epictetus lifts us out of the crumbs of daily life and leads us into what is most brutal in existence. The death of a loved one. Raw injustice. Loss—not of an object, but of a person, a world, a future.

And yet, Epictetus doesn’t change his tone.
He remains calm.
Measured.
As if he were still talking about a vase. Why? Because he applies the same logic. The logic of perspective. The logic of inner preparation. He doesn’t deny the pain. He doesn’t pretend these things are easy to endure. He simply says: they are natural. And because they are natural, they must be expected.

“You’ve returned it.”
Three words. And an entire shift in perspective.

Still—and I’m fully aware of this—if read too quickly, that phrase can sting. It can even wound. It sounds like a command, almost like a slap. And when you're grieving, concepts are the last thing you need.
You need silence. Warmth. Arms that hold you. Not philosophy. But if you’re willing, {{username}}, read it again. Slowly. Not as a formula to erase the pain, but as a fragile, sincere attempt to understand it differently. To return is not to lose. It is not to be torn away from. To return is to walk someone all the way to the end. It is to recognize that what was given to you never fully belonged to you. And in that act—yes, painful—there is dignity. There is a kind of love that doesn’t cling. A love that knows how to let go.

The Stoics will never tell you, “Don’t love.” That would be absurd. What they’ll say instead is: “Love, but know what it means to love. Love without pretending to hold still what is, by nature, in motion. Love with gratitude, not with grasping.”

So if you’re mourning someone dear, don’t hold back. Tears don’t contradict philosophy. They speak of attachment, of the beauty of that bond, of the richness of what was shared. You can cry, and at the same time, you can learn not to be destructed.

Because that’s what this wisdom aims for. Not to make you unfeeling. But to make you capable. Capable of facing the storm without falling apart. Capable of returning what was lent to you, without breaking.

And maybe one day, without rushing, you’ll be able to say it too: “I’ve returned it.” Not as a renunciation. But as an act of loyalty, even in separation. Because you loved, truly. And because you still do.

We are all caretakers, not owners.
And that shift in perspective, though it may sound terribly austere at first, gives us back a form of power, just when we need it most: the power to face loss without losing ourselves.

What Epictetus is saying isn’t that you shouldn’t love. He’s saying: love, but don’t cling to the illusion that you control what you love, because if you do, you become a slave, as he reminds us in the final part of the passage quoted above:

“Wherefore, exercise yourself in that which is in your power. Each man's master is the person who has the authority over what the man wishes or does not wish, so as to secure it, or take it away. Whoever, therefore, wants to be free, let him neither wish for anything, nor avoid anything, that is under the control of others; or else he is necessarily a slave.” ³

This is where this philosophy leads.
It begins with a broken vase, and it walks with you all the way through grief. It shapes you through the small things so that, when the big ones come, you’re ready.
Not unfeeling — ready.
Not detached — free.