In the first century, a young slave named Epictetus lived under the ownership of Epaphroditus, a wealthy freedman who served as secretary to the Emperor Nero. According to one account, Epaphroditus once twisted his leg so severely that it left him permanently lame. Whether legend or fact, what matters is what Epictetus supposedly said during the ordeal: "You're going to break it." And then, when it snapped: "I told you so."

This story—perhaps apocryphal, certainly instructive—captures something essential about Stoic philosophy. Epictetus didn't claim the pain wasn't real. He didn't pretend the situation was acceptable. He simply demonstrated that his response to events remained his own. This distinction between what happens to us and how we meet it would become the foundation of his teaching, and ultimately, one of the most influential ideas in Western philosophy.

Epictetus drew a line that changed everything. On one side: your body, your possessions, your reputation, the actions of others, the weather, the economy, whether you live or die. On the other side: your judgments, your desires, your choices, your character. The first category he called "things not up to us." The second: "things up to us." This division forms the opening of his Enchiridion, and it's where all Stoic practice begins.

Consider what this meant for a slave. Epictetus could not choose his owner, his labor, his food, his sleeping arrangements, or whether he would be sold tomorrow. A typical response might be despair or rage—both understandable, both ultimately corrosive. Instead, Epictetus noticed something his owners couldn't touch: his capacity to form opinions about his circumstances, to choose what mattered to him, to develop virtues even in degrading conditions.

This isn't resignation. Resignation says: nothing can be done. Stoic freedom says: something essential cannot be taken. When you locate your identity in your choices rather than your circumstances, you stop waiting for external conditions to grant you permission to be whole. The slave who understands this possesses something his master, who believes happiness depends on wealth and status, will never have.

Takeaway

Freedom isn't the absence of constraints—it's knowing which constraints touch your circumstances and which would have to touch your soul, and refusing to confuse the two.

Slavery in the ancient world meant more than forced labor. It meant being classified as property, having no legal standing, being subject to violence without recourse. How does one maintain dignity when the entire social structure insists you have none? Epictetus found the answer in a subtle but powerful distinction: the difference between how others treat you and who you actually are.

Others could call him worthless. He could observe that they were mistaken. Others could treat him as subhuman. He could notice this said something about their character, not his. The key word here is notice—not deny, not suppress, not pretend it didn't hurt. Stoicism doesn't ask you to become unfeeling. It asks you to feel clearly, then choose your response. When someone insults you, Epictetus taught, they're expressing their opinion. Whether that opinion disturbs your peace is your decision.

This practice proved essential to his later teaching. After gaining freedom (likely upon Epaphroditus's death), Epictetus established a school in Nicopolis that attracted students from across the Roman world. He taught them what slavery had taught him: your sense of worth cannot depend on others' recognition of it. If it does, you've handed them the keys to your inner life—and anyone holding those keys will eventually use them to hurt you.

Takeaway

Self-respect that depends on others' respect isn't self-respect at all—it's borrowed dignity, and the lender can demand it back at any moment.

Epictetus used a vivid metaphor: life is like a banquet. Dishes are passed around—some reach you, some don't. When a dish comes your way, take a moderate portion. When it passes you by, don't grab for it. When it hasn't arrived yet, don't yearn for it. "If you act this way toward children, spouse, public office, and wealth," he wrote, "you will be worthy to dine with the gods."

This isn't passive acceptance of injustice—Epictetus wasn't telling slaves to be content with slavery. He was describing a psychological orientation that prevents circumstances from destroying your inner equilibrium. The person who grasps frantically at every passing dish lives in constant anxiety. The person who takes what comes, enjoys it, and releases it when it's gone possesses something better than any particular dish: peace that doesn't depend on the menu.

What made Epictetus remarkable wasn't just that he survived slavery with his mind intact. It's that he emerged from it with more than most free people ever attain. He had been forced to discover what couldn't be taken, and having found it, he knew its value. His former masters spent their lives anxious about wealth, status, and the emperor's favor—all things that could vanish overnight. Epictetus had already lost everything losable. What remained was unshakable.

Takeaway

The person who has discovered what cannot be taken from them possesses something more secure than anything that can be given.

Epictetus died around 135 CE, having taught for decades and influenced generations. His student Arrian recorded his lectures, and through those records, his words reached Marcus Aurelius, who became emperor and Stoic practitioner. A slave's philosophy shaped an emperor's reign. The irony would not have been lost on Epictetus.

His central teaching remains startlingly practical: identify what's truly yours, and tend it well. Your circumstances are on loan. Your character is your own. No one can prevent you from being the person you choose to be—they can only make the choice harder. That difficulty, Epictetus would say, is just another opportunity to practice.