Stoicism in an age of outrage

We live in an age that rewards volatility. Algorithms favour outrage. Platforms reward performance. Emotion is marketed, identity is politicised, and discomfort is pathologised. In this climate, the ancient Stoics sound almost revolutionary. Not because they were loud, but because they weren’t.

The Stoics—Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, Seneca—did not seek comfort. They sought clarity. They believed the only thing truly within our control is the mind. Everything else—reputation, wealth, public opinion, even the body—is subject to chaos. To anchor your peace in these things, they argued, is to guarantee your torment.

That may sound severe, but what they were advocating wasn’t indifference. It was discipline. Emotional sobriety. The refusal to be enslaved by external events or internal tantrums. Today, that sounds less like ancient wisdom and more like a survival strategy.

Little wonder, then, that Stoicism is enjoying a resurgence—particularly among influencers, productivity gurus, and writers like Ryan Holiday, who package it as a life hack for modern chaos. But while its popularity may come wrapped in minimalist aesthetics and YouTube montages, the core ideas are not faddish. Nor are they just for stoic-faced bros chasing grit and discipline. Stoicism is not about dominance or hustle. It’s about humility, clarity, and moral grounding. It’s not a call to harden, but to sharpen.

Think better. Get the FREE guide.
Join Veridaze and get 10 Mental Tools for Clearer Thinking — a free guide to cutting through noise, confusion, and nonsense.

Subscribe now

Compare this with modern therapeutic culture, where emotional expression is often treated as sacred and the mere act of being offended confers authority. To a Stoic, this is madness. Feelings are not facts. Anger may arise, but it is not a justification. Sadness may linger, but it is not an excuse. The Stoic does not suppress emotion—he interrogates it. He listens to the signal, but refuses to be ruled by the noise.

In an economy of attention, , Stoicism is bad business. It doesn’t sell you empowerment; it demands you earn it. It doesn’t promise healing; it prescribes responsibility. There is no guarantee of happiness. Only the pursuit of virtue—and the daily, difficult work of living according to it.

Consider the idea of control. Most people waste entire days arguing with reality—furious about traffic, enraged by Twitter, angry that the world does not conform to their preferences. The Stoics would call this emotional illiteracy. You cannot control the algorithm. You cannot control the economy. You cannot control other people’s thoughts. But you can control how you meet each moment. That’s where agency lives.

Or take validation. Today, every opinion is a performance. We post, wait, refresh, and recalibrate our self-worth based on hearts and shares. The Stoics would scoff. They warned against chasing praise, not because it’s evil, but because it’s hollow. To live for applause is to live at the mercy of the crowd—a crowd that changes its mind by the minute.

And then there is death. Not exactly trending content. But to the Stoics, death was not a fear to be avoided. It was a fact to be faced. Not morbidly, but mindfully. To remember death is to remember that time is finite. That every hour squandered in petty outrage or anxious craving is an hour lost to the irretrievable. Memento mori, they said. Remember you must die. But in doing so, remember to live.

This isn’t about turning yourself into a granite block of indifference. It’s about cultivating inner architecture strong enough to withstand life’s unpredictability. In the modern world, that’s not cold. It’s courageous.

The Stoics weren’t influencers. They didn’t curate virtue; they practised it. Quietly. Relentlessly. In a time that screams for attention, that might be the most radical act of all.