To Bear and Forbear: Endurance and Restraint in the Stoic Life

When I make a commitment—to meet someone, to carry out a task, to show up at a certain time—I often add, almost automatically, “fate permitting.” It’s not superstition. It’s not hedging my bets. It’s a quiet acknowledgment of Stoic realism: I can intend, I can plan, I can promise, but the final outcome is never fully mine to command. Illness may strike. A storm may cancel travel. The unexpected always lurks, and “fate permitting” reminds me that I am a collaborator with fortune, not its master.

This is the daily texture of Stoic practice—realistic, rigorous, unsentimental. And at the core of this discipline are two imperatives that shape how we walk through the world: to bear and to forbear. Endure what must be endured. Resist what must be resisted.

These are not passive instructions. They demand strength, not submission. As Epictetus sharply observed:

“There were two faults which were by far the worst and most disgusting of all: lack of endurance and lack of self-restraint, when we cannot put up with or bear the wrongs which we ought to endure, or cannot restrain ourselves from actions or pleasures from which we ought to refrain.”
— Epictetus, as recorded by Favorinus

To Bear: Dignity in Suffering

“To bear” means to carry without collapse. It is the capacity to withstand life’s inevitable difficulties without turning bitter or broken. Marcus Aurelius writes with calm finality:

“If it is endurable, then endure it. Stop complaining.”
— Meditations, 10.3

This is not harshness—it is clarity. Life is not fair, and no amount of protest will change that. But what can change is how we respond.

The Stoics remind us that pain, loss, insult—these are externals. They lie outside our prohairesis, our moral will. What matters is not the wound, but the response. Do we curse the world and lash out, or do we bear the pain with steady resolve?

The image of endurance is not a clenched jaw or a gritted fist. It is a vessel holding weight without cracking. But that vessel must be clean. As Epictetus warned, philosophy is dangerous in a corrupt soul:

“O man, where are you storing these things? Consider whether the vessel be clean. For if you take them into your self-conceit, they are lost; if they are spoiled, they become urine or vinegar or something worse, if possible.”
— Attic Nights, 17.19

Without inner clarity, even noble ideas rot into vanity.

To Forbear: Power in Restraint

If to bear is to accept what comes, to forbear is to hold back what rises. It is the pause between impulse and action. The moment between being struck and striking back. Between desire and indulgence. It is, in essence, the art of saying no—not just to others, but to oneself.

Here Stoicism becomes a training ground for self-mastery. The Stoic does not deny emotion but disciplines it. As Epictetus explains:

“It is not things themselves that disturb us, but our judgments about them.”
— Enchiridion, 5

The insult does not offend us—it is our judgment that it should offend that stirs us up. Restraint is the refusal to be led by these reflexive judgments.

Philosopher Pierre Hadot described Marcus Aurelius’ journaling as a spiritual exercise. Each entry was a moment of self-regulation, a way to inspect his judgments and prepare himself anew:

“The very act of writing meditations was a way for the Emperor to process and check his own impressions, to wrestle with his passions, and to prepare himself anew each morning to meet the world without bitterness or indulgence.”
— Pierre Hadot, The Inner Citadel

This was not therapy. It was discipline.

The Double Practice: A Stoic Circuit

To bear and to forbear are not opposites—they are a cycle. Together, they constitute the Stoic’s ethical engine. One teaches us how to stand firm under what we cannot change. The other teaches us how to withhold from what we can but should not do.

The practice is not heroic in a cinematic sense. It is not performed for applause. It is interior and constant. You endure pain without making it your identity. You resist pleasure without making it a martyrdom. The goal is not repression, but harmony with nature, guided by reason (logos).

Seneca put it clearly:

“A good character, when established, becomes steady and unchangeable… The wise man is consistent with himself.”
— Letters, 120.6

Consistency is not rigidity—it is alignment. A soul in tune with its principles does not flinch under pressure or dissolve in temptation.

Fate Permitting: A Final Note

“To bear and forbear” is not a shield against all suffering. It is not a formula to escape hardship. But it is a way of living that honors both strength and humility. We can commit, act, strive—and still leave space for fate. “Fate permitting” is not resignation. It is a reminder that wisdom lies not in control, but in character.

In a world bent on reaction, the Stoic bears the storm and forbears the shout. He neither curses the wind nor sails recklessly into it. He adjusts the sails, checks his course, and says—calmly, firmly—fate permitting.