Chapter 10: Loving People Without Holding Them Too Tightly

Car Keys on the Kitchen Table

Fatima is forty-six. Her son Adam turned eighteen in the spring and passed his driving test in the summer. Tonight, for the first time, he has taken the family car to drive across town to a friend's birthday party. He promised to be home by midnight. It is now a quarter to twelve, and Fatima is sitting in the kitchen with a cup of tea, listening to every car that passes the house.

Her mind is full of pictures. A wet road. A tired driver coming the other way. Adam looking at his phone for just a second. Flashing lights. A telephone call from a stranger. She knows these pictures are not facts. Adam is a careful driver, and he has never given her reason to doubt him. But knowing this does not stop the pictures. Each one arrives with a small electric shock of fear.

At five past twelve, she hears the car in the driveway. Adam comes in smiling, a little embarrassed to see her still awake and waiting. "Sorry, Mum, I left a bit late. I drove slowly." She hugs him for longer than he expects and says nothing about the pictures. When he goes upstairs, she sits in the kitchen for another ten minutes, feeling relief and exhaustion at the same time. She knows there will be many more nights like this.

Worry for the people we love is perhaps the most painful kind of worry. It is not about our own comfort or our own reputation. It is about people whose safety and happiness matter to us more than our own. And it has a special difficulty: almost nothing about their lives is up to us. Fatima cannot drive the car for Adam. She cannot choose his friends, control the roads or make sure that every other driver is careful. She can only love him, prepare him as well as she can and let him go.

This chapter looks at what the Stoics said about love and loss. Some of their words can sound hard at first, and I will not hide that. But I hope to show that beneath them is a deep tenderness, and a practical way of loving people fully without being crushed by fear for them.

Epictetus' Hardest Lesson

Near the beginning of the Handbook, Epictetus gives a piece of advice that many readers find shocking. In my own words: with everything that delights you, or that is useful to you, or that you love, remind yourself what kind of thing it is, starting with the smallest things. If you are fond of a jug, say, "I am fond of a jug." Then, if it breaks, you will not be upset. If you kiss your child or your partner, say to yourself that you are kissing a human being. Then, if they die, you will not be overwhelmed (Epictetus, Enchiridion 3).

I want to be honest: this passage can feel cold, even cruel. No loving parent wants to think about the death of their child while kissing them goodnight. And to many modern readers, the idea of not being "upset" by the death of someone we love seems impossible and even wrong. If we love someone, surely we should grieve when we lose them.

To understand Epictetus fairly, it helps to remember his world. In his time, death came early and often. Many children did not survive to adulthood. Illness could take a healthy person in days. Epictetus was not speaking to people who had never thought about loss. He was speaking to people who lived with it constantly, and who were often destroyed by it because they had never allowed themselves to remember that the people they loved were mortal.

His point was not that we should love less. It was that we should love with open eyes. A human being is a mortal creature. That is not a terrible secret. It is the plain truth of every life. When we remember it, gently and not in panic, something changes. Each ordinary moment with the people we love becomes more precious, not less. The goodnight kiss is no longer something we take for granted. It is a gift, given today, by a person who is here today.

Marcus Aurelius recorded that Epictetus once said something similar in another form: when you kiss your child, you might whisper, "Tomorrow, perhaps, you will die." When people objected that such words were unlucky, Epictetus answered that nothing natural is unlucky. Otherwise, he said, it would be unlucky to speak of the cutting of the corn at harvest time (Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 11.34). Death, like harvest, is part of nature. Speaking of it does not cause it. And remembering it can teach us to cherish what we have while we have it.

Few modern readers will want to whisper such words to their children, and there is no need to. The heart of the teaching can be held more quietly: "I have this person with me now. I do not own their future. I will love them well today." That sentence is gentle, and yet it carries the whole of what Epictetus meant.

Seneca on Grief and the Gift of Friends

Seneca wrote often about grief, both in his letters and in essays written to comfort friends who had lost children or family members. His view was more gentle than Epictetus' words might suggest. In one letter, written to Lucilius after the death of a friend, Seneca says that he does not ask Lucilius not to grieve at all. Tears may fall, he says, but they should not flow without end. We may weep, but we should not wail without limit (Seneca, Letters 63).

In the same letter, Seneca gives advice that is directly useful for those who worry about losing people they love. Let us enjoy our friends eagerly while we have them, he says, because we do not know how long that will be. He also admits, with great honesty, that he himself once grieved too much for a close friend, because he had never imagined that the friend could die before him. He had thought only of his own death, not of his friend's. The shock of the loss was greater because he had never let himself think about it (Seneca, Letters 63).

Seneca's words suggest a balanced way of holding love and loss. We do not need to be cold. Grief is natural, and the Stoics did not condemn tears. But we can reduce the shock of loss, and enrich the time we have, by remembering that the people we love are with us for a while, not forever. Then we can enjoy them fully now, and, if loss comes, we can grieve without being completely destroyed.

There is also, in Stoic thinking, a clear line between what is up to us in our relationships and what is not. Our love, our care, our honesty, our presence and our help are up to us. We can give these fully. The other person's choices, their health, their safety and the length of their life are not up to us. When we confuse the two, love turns into worry and control. When we keep them clear, love can be generous and free.

Epictetus told a story that shows this clearly. A father came to him and admitted that when his little daughter was seriously ill, he could not bear to stay in the house, so he left until he heard that she was better. He thought this showed how much he loved her. Epictetus gently questioned him. Was it loving, he asked, to leave the child when she was ill? Would he want everyone who loved her, her mother and her nurse, to do the same and leave her alone? His fear for his daughter had made him abandon her at the moment she needed him most (Epictetus, Discourses 1.11). Worry had looked like love, but it had worked against love.

Rania and Her Father

Rania is fifty and the only daughter of an eighty-two-year-old father who lives alone in the house where she grew up. Her mother died four years ago. Her father is independent and proud. He still cooks for himself, tends his garden and walks to the shops every day. Rania lives an hour away and calls him every evening.

Rania's worry is constant. What if he falls in the garden? What if he forgets to turn off the stove? What if he becomes ill in the night and nobody knows? She has asked him many times to move into a smaller flat near her, or to have someone visit him every day. He always refuses. "I am not a child," he says. "This is my home." Their phone calls have started to turn into arguments.

When Rania thought about the Stoic division, she saw that she had been trying to put her father's choices into her own column. Where he lives, how he spends his days and how much help he accepts are, in the end, his decisions. He is an adult with a clear mind and a right to choose his own life, even if his choices worry her. What is up to her is how she loves him: her calls, her visits, her honest concern and the practical help she can offer.

So Rania changed her approach. She stopped arguing about moving. Instead, she asked her father what would make him feel safe in his own home. Together, they agreed on a few things: a simple alarm he could wear, a neighbour who would knock on his door each morning and a weekly visit from Rania on Saturdays. These were not things she imposed. They were things he chose, which made all the difference.

Rania still worries sometimes. But the worry has become smaller, and the phone calls have become warm again. "I realized that I was spending our evening calls trying to win an argument," she said. "And our time together is not endless. I would rather spend it listening to him talk about his tomatoes." That is very close to Seneca's advice: enjoy the people you love while you have them.

Hiroshi and the Long Months Apart

Hiroshi is thirty-seven and works as an engineer on a cargo ship. He spends three or four months at sea, then a few months at home. His partner, Elena, works as a nurse, and they have a six-year-old son. When Hiroshi is away, his worry for his family travels with him. He worries about their health, about his son growing up without him and about his partner coping with everything alone.

At sea, communication is limited. Sometimes he can call home only once a week. In the days between calls, his mind fills the silence with worry, much as Joel's mind did in Chapter 2. If a call is delayed, he imagines accidents and illnesses. If his son sounds quiet on the phone, he imagines that the boy is unhappy or angry with him.

Hiroshi found help in the two lists. Nothing that happens at home while he is at sea is up to him in the moment. But a great deal is up to him in other ways. Before he leaves, he can prepare with his partner: making sure there is support nearby, writing down plans for emergencies and leaving small letters for his son, one to open each week. During the voyage, he can make the most of each call by being fully present, listening and asking about small things. And he can look after his own health and mind, so that he comes home rested.

He also used Seneca's reminder about enjoying people while we have them, but in his own way. When he is at home, Hiroshi tries not to waste the time worrying about his next departure. He takes his son to school, cooks dinner and listens to Elena's stories from the hospital. "I used to spend my last two weeks at home already sad about leaving," he said. "Now I try to spend them being at home." The time apart is still hard. But the time together has become fuller.

His partner has her own worries about him, of course, since his job carries its own risks. The two of them have learned to speak honestly about their fears, without letting fear take over their calls. This, too, is a form of love: sharing worry openly, so that each person does not carry it alone, and then turning together toward the things that are up to them.

Marisol and Her Grandson's Choice

Marisol is seventy-two. Her grandson Andrés, whom she helped raise, has just told the family that he is leaving his university course in engineering to become a musician. He plays the guitar beautifully and has been invited to join a band. His parents are upset. Marisol is frightened. She remembers how hard her own early life was, and she wants Andrés to have security.

For several weeks, Marisol could think of little else. She worried that he would struggle to earn a living, that he would regret his choice and that he would end up with nothing. She tried to talk him out of it, gently at first and then less gently. Andrés grew quiet around her, and she felt a distance growing between them that frightened her even more.

One evening, Marisol's old friend asked her a simple question: "Whose life is it?" Marisol knew the answer. It was Andrés' life. His choices were his, as Epictetus would say. She could share her concerns honestly, once and kindly. But she could not live his life for him, and her worry would not make his choice wiser. It would only damage their closeness.

So Marisol did something brave. She went to see Andrés and told him that she was frightened, because she loved him and wanted him to be safe. Then she told him that it was his life and that she would support him whatever he chose. She asked him to play her one of his songs. He did, and she cried, and he hugged her. A few months later, she went to his first concert in a small hall, sitting in the front row.

Nobody knows whether Andrés' choice will turn out well. That is not up to Marisol, and it is not fully up to Andrés either. But Marisol has kept the thing that was truly hers: a loving relationship with her grandson. Her worry might have cost her that. Her acceptance kept it.

Marisol also found that her acceptance changed her own days. For weeks, her mind had been occupied by a future she could not see and could not control. Once she let it go, she had room again for her own life: her friends, her garden, the choir she sings in on Thursdays. Letting the people we love make their own choices is not only a gift to them. It also returns to us the attention that worry had been using up.

Practical Steps: Loving With Open Hands

The first step is to separate your love from their choices. Write down the name of someone you worry about. In one column, write what is up to you in your relationship with them: your words, your presence, your help, your honesty, your example. In the other column, write what is up to them or to life: their decisions, their health, their safety, their future. Put your full energy into the first column. The second column is where you practise letting go.

The second step is to share your concern once, clearly and kindly, then trust. If you are worried about someone's choice, it is loving to say so. But saying it again and again rarely helps. Like Marisol, you can say, "I am worried because I love you. It is your choice, and I will support you." This keeps honesty and respect together.

The third step is to make practical plans together, not alone. If your worry is about safety, ask the other person what would help them feel safe, as Rania did with her father. Agreed plans are more likely to be followed, and they reduce worry on both sides.

The fourth step is to remember mortality gently, in the spirit of Epictetus and Seneca. You do not need to think about death constantly. But now and then, when you are with someone you love, you can remind yourself quietly: "This person is with me now. This moment will not come again." Many people find that this makes them more patient, more present and more grateful.

The fifth step is to be present instead of anxious when you are together. Worry often steals the very time we have with the people we worry about. Hiroshi's lesson applies to everyone: when you are with them, be with them. Listen, ask about small things, laugh together. That presence is one of the greatest gifts you can give, and it is completely up to you.

The sixth step is to look after yourself while you look after others. People who worry about loved ones often neglect their own rest, meals and friendships. Yet you can only give from what you have. Taking care of your own health and mind is not selfish. It is part of being able to love well over a long time.

When Worry Feels Like Love

Many people feel that worrying about someone is a way of loving them. If they stopped worrying, they fear, it would mean that they had stopped caring. This feeling is very understandable, and it is worth looking at closely.

Epictetus' story of the father who left his sick daughter shows that worry and love are not the same thing. Sometimes they work together. Sometimes they pull in different directions. Love moves toward the other person: it listens, helps, stays and supports. Worry often moves inward: it fills our own minds, exhausts us and sometimes makes us act in ways that do not help the person we love. A parent who is so anxious that they cannot sleep may be less able to care for their child the next day. A friend who constantly warns may push away the person they want to protect.

So it is possible to worry less and love just as much, or even more. In fact, when worry becomes smaller, love often has more room. Fatima, after many nights of staying awake until Adam came home, decided to go to bed and ask him to send a short message when he arrived at his destination and when he was leaving. She slept better. And in the mornings, instead of being tired and tense, she was able to sit with him over breakfast and hear about his evening. Her love had not changed. It had simply found a better way to show itself.

If worry for someone you love has become overwhelming, or if you are facing the serious illness or loss of someone close to you, it is natural to need support. Talking with friends, family, a doctor or a counsellor can help. Grief and fear for loved ones are among the heaviest things a person can carry, and nobody should have to carry them alone.

A Short Exercise: The Ordinary Moment

This exercise is a gentle way of practising Epictetus' and Seneca's teaching about cherishing people while we have them. It does not ask you to think about death. It asks you to notice life.

Choose one person you love and often worry about. For the next seven days, try to notice one ordinary moment with them each day. It might be the sound of their voice on the phone, the way they laugh at something, a meal together, a short walk, a message they send or simply the sight of them reading on the sofa. The moment does not have to be special. In fact, ordinary moments are best.

If you live far from the person you have chosen, the moments can be small things at a distance: a message, a photograph they send, a short call. If you are worried about someone you rarely see, you can also notice a memory each day instead, a moment from the past that you are grateful for. The aim is the same: to turn your attention from fear about what might happen to gratitude for what is.

When you notice the moment, pause for a breath and say silently: "This is happening now. I am glad of it." Then, in the evening, write it down in one or two sentences. "She told me about her teacher and made a funny face." "He fixed the gate and whistled while he worked." "We drank tea in the garden."

At the end of the week, read the seven moments together. Notice how much of your time with this person you might normally spend worrying about their future, and how much of it is actually filled with small, warm, present moments. Notice, too, which moments you would have missed if you had been lost in worry.

Some people continue this practice for a long time, keeping a small book of ordinary moments with the people they love. Over months and years, it becomes a treasure. Fatima keeps one for Adam. On the first page she wrote: "He came home from his first drive and said he drove slowly. He was smiling." Whatever the future brings, that moment is safely hers.

Chapter Summary

Worry for the people we love is painful because almost nothing about their lives is up to us. Epictetus taught us to remember that the people we love are mortal human beings (Enchiridion 3), not to love them less, but to love them with open eyes and to treasure each moment. Marcus recorded Epictetus' view that speaking of death is no more unlucky than speaking of harvest (Meditations 11.34). Seneca allowed tears in grief but asked that they have a limit, and urged us to enjoy our friends eagerly while we have them (Letters 63). Epictetus' story of the father who fled his sick daughter shows that worry can sometimes work against love (Discourses 1.11).

Fatima waiting for Adam, Rania with her independent father, Hiroshi at sea and Marisol with her grandson's choice all found ways to love fully while letting go of what was not theirs: sharing concerns once and kindly, making plans together and being present in the time they had.

In the next chapter, we turn to work and achievement, and to a Stoic image that has helped many people who worry about results: the archer who does everything well and then lets the arrow fly.