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I s everyone living a superfluous life? This planet is crawling with billions of us — driving to work, posting trite photos online, and animatedly arguing about the relative merits of various self-serving elected officials. On the surface, it seems all very industrious. Upon closer examination, it's more likely to be completely irrelevant. And yet, some people appear to be happy and fulfilled. Or at least occupied, which may be the modern substitute for happiness and fulfillment. Some try to "find themselves" in religion, yoga retreats, or sourdough starters; others volunteer for veterans' causes, rescue animals, or collect vintage watches. Some go to therapy, some journal, some hike — all excellent distractions from the universal truth that, cosmically speaking, life is pointless. When I try to view eternity through the lens of my own mortality, everything and everyone is turning to dust. Time is gradually erasing the memory of everything I see or hear. The age an...

W hen I’m tired, I catch myself chasing after the right word, like my brain is misfiring just enough to leave me hanging. Usually, I can swap in something close enough, but that “it’s on the tip of my tongue” feeling? It drives me nuts. Am I getting tired more often now? Just the other day, it was just my wife and me, chatting about someone we both know who’s been having a rough time with Parkinson’s disease. For some reason, even though the condition was clear in my mind, the name just vanished. All I could offer was “the shaking disease”—and thank goodness my wife stepped in with the actual word. I recognized it instantly, of course. But not five minutes later, the word “Parkinson’s” slipped away again. So once again, I leaned on her memory. This isn’t the first time. Over the last few months, that particular word keeps playing hide-and-seek with me. Even writing this down, I ended up searching for “shaking disease” so I could find the word “Parkinson’s” to type. It just woul...

A t 67 years old, I’ve decided that serenity isn’t just a pleasant ideal—it’s essential, and it rarely comes without effort. It takes discernment, restraint, and often, a willingness to step back. Peace of mind isn’t up for negotiation—especially around those who thrive on emotional upheaval and/or sincerely believe their unchecked opinions are immutable truths. Some of my family members speak with such absolute certainty that you’d think disagreement was an act of heresy. Every conversation risks a storm, so for years, I did my best to reason with them. I sought common ground, more-or-less embodying Christian and Stoic virtues: patience, understanding, keeping my cool. But, after countless gatherings ending in exhaustion—blood pressure climbing, blood sugar spiking, energy vanishing for days—it's become clear: this isn't just about clashing philosophies or politics; it's about my health, physically and mentally. Stoicism, as I see it, doesn’t demand martyrdom for the sake ...

I 've come to see that most people don't actually want freedom — they want comfort. They say they want freedom, but what they really mean is the freedom to avoid effort . The freedom to eat what they want, watch what they want, sleep in when they feel like it, and call that "living." I used to think that way too. But over time I realized that comfort isn't freedom — it's a kind of slavery. The undisciplined person isn't free at all. They're chained to their impulses, ruled by their moods, and dependent on circumstances to feel okay. Akira the Don's song " Discipline Equals Freedom " (based on Jocko Willink's words) hit me the first time I heard it. The phrase sounds almost contradictory — but it's exactly right. When I live with discipline, I feel freer, lighter, more in control. When I let myself drift, I start to feel trapped — even if nobody's telling me what to do. Ancient Philosophers understood this long before Jocko ...

W hy does the universe seem just right for life? Why are the laws of physics balanced on a razor's edge that allows atoms to form, stars to shine, and organisms like us to exist? Is it the Anthropic Principle ? That's the cosmological concept that says, essentially, the universe must be compatible with conscious life because conscious life is here to observe it. Then there is Modern Stoicism —a philosophy centered on reason, virtue, and accepting what we cannot control to navigate both the mysteries of the universe and the daily mess of being human. The Anthropic Principle comes in a few versions: Weak Anthropic Principle: We observe the universe the way it is because it has to be this way for us to exist and ask the question in the first place. Strong Anthropic Principle: The universe is structured in such a way that the emergence of conscious observers is not just allowed but required . The principle often comes up in discussions about the apparent ...

I am an Introvert. Crowds drain me, small talk is tedious, and quiet reflection and one-on-one connection are my preference. Yet, even so, I tend to thrive in specific social roles. I have stood in front of a room as a supervisor, performed on stage, spoken publicly, and acted as a public spokesperson—and during those moments, I felt fully alive, alert, energetic, and connected. As a supervisor, I enjoyed guiding and helping others. I felt a sense of satisfaction as a performer on stage. I was energized by the chance to represent my organization as a spokesperson. But when the crowd dispersed, the meeting closed, or the applause faded— I retreated, grateful to return to solitude. In his 2025 book , The Gift of Not Belonging , psychiatrist Rami Kaminski introduces the term otrovert—derived from otro, meaning "other" in Spanish—to describe a distinct personality orientation that is not fully captured by the familiar introvert-extrovert spectrum. The term otrovert— someone who...

Any power you have comes to you from far beyond. Everything is fixed, and you can't change it.           — Jesus to Pilate in the musical Jesus Christ Superstar T here’s something both oddly comforting and deeply unsettling about determinism. On one hand, it means you're not to blame for that embarrassing thing you said in 2014. On the other, it means you might not be steering the ship at all. Determinism, a concept that has echoed through the corridors of history, is the idea that everything — your thoughts, your choices, your Spotify Wrapped — is the inevitable result of prior causes. It's a notion that has been pondered by great minds of the past, and if we could rewind the universe and play it forward again, it would unfold exactly the same way. This idea isn’t new. The Stoics were early champions. They believed the cosmos runs on logos — divine reason, a kind of metaphysical cause-and-effect. Their advice? Since you can’t change fate, stop complaining ...

W hen the Stoic philosophers spoke of “God,” they didn’t mean a bearded man on a cloud. Their theos was not a supernatural personality outside of nature, but the totality of existence itself — the rational, ordered, living whole of which we are a part. In this sense, “God” was simply another word for the universe, infused with reason ( logos ), uncreated, eternal, and self-sustaining. Today, 2,000 years later, modern thinkers — whether they call themselves pantheists, naturalists, or just curious human beings — are finding themselves arriving at a similar place. The idea that the universe itself is divine, not because it’s magical, but because it is the total, interconnected reality that produces life, mind, and meaning, has a strange way of persisting. The Stoic View: God as Nature, Nature as God The Stoics, especially thinkers like Chrysippus and Marcus Aurelius, held that God and Nature were the same. The cosmos was a single, living organism, guided by reason ( logos ), and all...

I am a retired senior citizen. With fewer distractions and obligations, the quiet has grown louder — and with it, a deep, gnawing question:  Does anything really matter? The answer I keep arriving at, disturbingly but persistently, is: No. Not really. Not in the long run. Empires rise and fall. The sun will burn out. Everything I have ever done, thought, or loved will be forgotten. Even the Earth itself will one day cease to exist. What’s the point of trying to live “well” when I’m a temporary blip, a speck of dust floating in a cosmic shrug? That’s where I am. This, I suppose, is what some would call an existential crisis . It feels more like existential clarity—and it’s unsettling. But I’ve been walking the Stoic path for a while now. I'm a Prokopton — a student of Stoicism, someone hopefully progressing toward wisdom, even if imperfectly. The Stoics never promised comfort. They promised coherence. A way to live honestly in a world that doesn’t owe us meaning or anyt...

W hen I was a Christian, I was taught to bring my pain, confusion, and doubt to the foot of the cross. “You can be healed,” I was told. “ If you have faith, God will make a way .” But the promised healing never came. When my faith-filled prayers were answered with silence, the reassuring comments of “It’s all part of God’s plan” started to sound like empty rhetoric. For that reason and many others, I eventually left Christianity, carrying a burden of spiritual scaring. Now what? Seek psychological help? Eliminate my magical thinking by actually studying science? I tried those paths, and they did help. However, somewhere along the way, I quietly, curiously stumbled onto the writings of modern and ancient philosophers. I mostly skipped the dry texts presented by academia, being more drawn to contemporary writers who bring philosophy alive. When I think of medicine, I often picture pills, prescriptions, or white-coated professionals poking at problems with stethoscopes. But lon...

F or the better half of my life, I was a dedicated Christian. My faith shaped how I interpreted the world, how I related to others, and how I understood meaning and morality. In my 40s, I began to question — not out of a desire to sin (the usual Christian dismissal for my current disbelief), but out of a deep and unsettling sense that the religious world I inhabited no longer made sense to me. What followed was a liberating and empowering transition. After many years of identifying as a timidly skeptical ex-Christian, I discovered Stoicism, an ancient philosophy that had eluded me until then. Now, I proudly identify as a Stoic Prokopton — a term that signifies progress, not perfection. I am not a sage, not a master, not a know-it-all, but simply someone walking the path with intention and empowerment. Why I Moved Away from Christianity My faith had been my primary source of community, identity, and purpose. The more I learned about Christianity, the more I noticed the contradictory n...