THE STOIC 4 September 2026 For, unless you perfectly understand the principle from which anyone acts, how should you know if he acts ill? — Epictetus, Enchiridion 45

Shame and its disguises

Shame can be a difficult emotion to recognize in another person because it doesn’t always appear as regret or sorrow. Sometimes it appears as anger, blame, or a story in which someone else becomes responsible for choices the ashamed person does not yet know how to face.

I learned this through an experience with someone I care about deeply. This person has made choices that brought painful consequences. Rather than acknowledge what had happened, they began telling me stories about someone else who was involved. Their version of events placed responsibility on this third person and provided an explanation that protected them from looking too closely at their own conduct. Some of what I was told was untrue. Other parts took something real and reshaped it until the circumstances were difficult to recognize.

My first response was concern. I wanted to help because I could see that this person was struggling. I listened carefully and tried to understand what had happened. Because I care about them, I believed that if I could find the right words or ask the right questions, I might help them see the situation more honestly.

We are only responsible for our judgments and actions

The Stoics remind us that our responsibility lies with our own judgments and actions. We can listen with patience, speak truthfully, and offer help when it is appropriate. We can't make another person examine themselves before they are willing. We can’t force someone to accept responsibility simply because we believe they should.

And yet, it is not easy

Knowing this didn’t make the situation easy. It’s painful to watch someone we love avoid what they most need to face, particularly when another person is being blamed unfairly. Stoic practice asks us to examine our role carefully. I had to consider whether continuing to listen without questioning the stories was truly supportive. I also had to ask whether my desire to help had become an attempt to manage another person’s conscience.

There were times when I needed to say that the account I was hearing didn’t seem fair or consistent with what I knew. I could do that calmly, without humiliating the person or turning the conversation into an argument. Beyond that, repeatedly pressing them to admit the truth would have drawn me into a struggle I simply couldn’t resolve. Honesty can’t be forced upon someone from the outside.

That distinction was painful because stepping back felt, at first, like abandoning someone in trouble. Yet remaining involved in the wrong way wasn’t actually helping them. If I accepted every story without question, I would support the explanation that allowed them to avoid examining their choices. If I responded with impatience or judgment, I might make it even harder for them to speak honestly.

I began to understand that I could care about this person without taking responsibility for what belonged to them. I could listen when they were ready to speak honestly. I could acknowledge their suffering without agreeing with their account of someone else. I could refuse to participate in unfair blame while leaving room for a more truthful conversation. These choices required more restraint than either unquestioning agreement or angry confrontation would have required.

We hide shame

Shame often encourages concealment. A person may fear that admitting a wrong choice means admitting that they are entirely bad or undeserving of care. Creating a story about someone else may offer temporary relief from that fear. Remembering this helped me respond with greater compassion, though compassion did not require me to accept the story as true.

My Stoic practice called me back to my own character. Was I listening wisely? Was I being truthful and fair to everyone involved, including the absent person who could not defend themselves? Was I helping in a way that encouraged honesty, or merely easing the discomfort of avoidance? Those questions belonged to me. Whether the person would face their choices, correct the stories, or understand why I could no longer participate in them did not.

I still hoped they would find the courage to look honestly at what had happened. I hoped they would discover that acknowledging a poor choice does not have to become a permanent judgment against oneself. But hope must leave room for another person’s freedom, including the freedom to remain mistaken.

Caring for someone sometimes means standing nearby without entering the confusion they have created. I could keep the door open to an honest conversation, but I could not walk through it for them. My responsibility was to remain as truthful, measured, and compassionate as I could, while allowing them to carry what was theirs.

Shirley Kwosek Sciacca is a writer, living in the midwest, seeking wisdom and resilience through lifelong learning and the practice of Stoic principles.

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