On the Stoic Art of Distance: Choosing Peace Over Proximity

At 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 of family peace. Marcus Aurelius reminds us,

“You have power over your mind—not outside events. Realize this, and you will find strength.”

Other people? That’s part of the “outside events” I can’t control. I might never change them—but I can decide if I want to stand in their blast radius. Applying Marcus’s wisdom today means realizing when someone’s presence unsettles my soul—and having the courage to step back. Stoicism means acceptance—not sacrificing myself for someone else’s comfort. Just because we’re related doesn’t mean I have to attend dinner at 5.  

Back in the day, the Stoics talked about apatheia—a state of inner calm, undisturbed by outside drama. Even then, they knew that peace can’t grow in toxic soil. Seneca observed that wise people avoid crowds not out of snobbery, but out of wisdom. Emotions like anger, vanity, and self-righteousness are contagious; spend enough time with them, and even the strongest will falter.  (Letter VII. On Crowds)
These days, I practice “compassionate distance.” I harbor no ill will, no lingering resentment. I simply accept that maintaining my well-being means drawing boundaries. Distance isn’t punishment—it’s preservation. It’s a modern take on the Stoic concept of oikeiôsis: nurturing oneself, living in harmony with your true nature.

Truth is, sidestepping needless conflict might be the most compassionate thing I can do—for everyone. When I am calm and centered, kindness flows more freely. When I’m anxious, worn thin, or angry, it doesn’t. Guarding my peace helps me do less harm to myself—and to others.

I still wish my family nothing but good things. I hope they find some calm of their own, even if it’s forged within the storm of their absolutist certainty. But I no longer choose to wade into that tempest. My path forward is quieter, simpler, and far healthier.

The ancient Stoics didn’t have to worry about hypertension or glucose monitors, but they knew that the highest good was a tranquil mind in sync with reason and nature. For me, that means learning—at last—to let peace, not blood, shape my sense of family.

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