“If thou art pained by any external thing, it is not this thing that disturbs thee, but thy own judgment about it. And it is in thy power to wipe out this judgment now. But if anything in thy own disposition gives thee pain, who hinders thee from correcting thy opinion? And similarly, if you are pained because you fail in some particular action which you imagine to be sound, why not continue to act rather than to feel pain? ‘But something too strong for you opposes itself’. Then do not be pained, for the reason why the act is not done does not rest with you. ‘Well, but if this be left undone, life is not worth living.’ Depart then from life in a spirit of good will, even as he dies who achieves his end, contented, too, with what opposes you.”
— Marcus Aurelius, Meditations 8.47 (c. 170–180 CE)
Marcus identifies three distinct sources of suffering—and reveals that each one lives entirely within our power to address. The pain we feel from external events, the discomfort of our own character, and the ache of inaction or unfinished purpose. In each case, he brings us back to what is actually ours.
I see it clearly in myself. How often I suffer not from what happens, but from the story I attach to it. A delayed reply becomes evidence of rejection. A sharp tone becomes proof I’m unworthy. Marcus doesn’t ask us to deny that difficult things happen—he asks us to notice the gap between what happens and what we make it mean. The event isn’t the problem—my judgment is. And the judgment? That’s mine to change.
Before recovery, I thought the pain was caused by substances. Or by people. Or by the chaos of the world around me. But what actually made my life unmanageable was my insistence that I should be able to control things I never could. That’s Step One: admitting I am powerless, and that my life became unmanageable because I refused to accept that truth. The pain wasn’t just from using—it was from the constant war I waged against reality.
When the discomfort is internal—my defensiveness, my self-pity, my patterns of sabotage—it’s tempting to look outward for blame. But Marcus reminds me: who is stopping me from changing? This demands rigorous honesty—the kind that asks not “why did they make me this way” but “what am I choosing right now?” This is where Step Ten comes in: the daily practice of inventory, of noticing where I’m still caught, and choosing to do something different.
Then there are the things I keep putting off. The apologies I haven’t made. The tasks I say matter but don’t complete. These can eat away at my peace. Marcus says: if you can act, act. If you can’t, stop punishing yourself. Either move or let go. And if I find myself saying, “I can’t live with this undone,” he reveals the absurdity of my position: if I’m not willing to die over it, stop acting like it’s life or death.
This is what awakening looks like for me. Returning, again and again, to examine each instance of suffering and ask: is this external? Then revise the judgment. Is this internal? Then correct the principle. Is this about inaction? Then either act or accept the obstacle. Step One taught me what I’m powerless over. Step Ten transforms that powerlessness into daily empowerment: my willingness to see clearly and change.
Where am I creating suffering through my judgments about external events rather than responding to the events themselves?
What character defects am I blaming on circumstances instead of taking responsibility to change?
What incomplete tasks am I using to torture myself—and am I willing to either complete them or accept the obstacles that prevent their completion?
Can I trust that my power lies not in controlling outcomes but in examining and revising the judgments that create my experience?
