On the Stoic Art of Distance: Choosing Peace Over Proximity

At this stage of life—67 years old—I’ve learned that serenity doesn’t come cheap. It requires discernment, restraint, and sometimes, distance. The older I get, the more I realize that peace of mind is not something to be negotiated, especially in the company of those who thrive on emotional chaos or insist that their opinions are unquestionable truths.

I have several family members who seem utterly convinced that their unverified opinions are, in fact, verified facts. They speak with such conviction that dissent feels like blasphemy. And should anyone dare to question them, the emotional storm that follows can be exhausting. For years, I tried to reason with them, to find common ground, to practice the Stoic virtues of patience and understanding.

But over time, I’ve noticed something unsettling. After family gatherings, my blood pressure rises to alarming levels, my blood sugar spikes, and I feel drained for days. I've begun to see that this isn't merely about philosophical, religious, or political differences—it was about my health, both physical and mental.

Stoicism, as I understand it, does not demand that I martyr myself for the sake of family harmony. Marcus Aurelius reminds us, 

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

Outside events include people who drain my energy and disturb my calm. It doesn’t mean I can change them (I can’t), but I can choose whether or not to stand in the blast zone. The modern interpretation of that wisdom means recognizing when proximity to certain people disturbs one’s equilibrium and responding by quietly stepping back. Stoicism teaches acceptance—but not self-destruction. In other words, forbearing with difficult relatives doesn't mean, "See you at dinner!"

In ancient times, the Stoics spoke of the apatheia—a state of inner tranquility, undisturbed by external turmoil. But even the ancients knew that tranquility doesn’t flourish in toxic soil. Seneca wrote that the wise person avoids crowds not out of disdain, but out of prudence. Emotions like anger, vanity, and self-righteousness are contagious. Exposure to unhealthy influences, he said, can make even a strong soul falter.  (Letter VII. On Crowds)

So today, I practice what I call “compassionate distance.” I do not wish ill upon my family members, nor do I carry resentment. I simply recognize that my well-being requires boundaries. Distance, in this sense, is not punishment—it’s preservation. It’s a modern adaptation of the Stoic principle of oikeiôsis: the natural impulse to care for oneself and live in harmony with one’s own nature. 

In truth, avoiding unnecessary conflict may be the most compassionate act I can offer. When I am calm and centered, I am kinder. When I am anxious and inflamed, I am not. By maintaining my peace, I do less harm—to myself and to others.

I still wish my family well. I hope they find their own calm within the storm of their certainties. But I no longer plan to join the tempest. My path will be quieter, simpler, and healthier.

The Stoics didn’t live in an age of hypertension and glucose monitors, but they understood that life’s highest good was a tranquil mind in harmony with reason and nature. And for me, that means learning—finally—to let peace, not blood, define my sense of family.

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