When you see someone weeping in grief because their child is away from home, or because they have lost their possessions, be careful that the appearance does not carry you away with the thought that they are in a bad state because of these external things. But be ready at hand with the thought, 'It is not what has happened that distresses this person, for it does not distress another, but it is their judgment about it.' As far as words go, however, do not hesitate to sympathize with them, or even, if the occasion arises, to groan with them; but take care that you do not groan also from within. - Epictetus, Enchiridion, 16

Stoicism teaches that suffering arises not from events themselves, but from our judgments about them. If that is true, then what place is there for compassion? If each person suffers because of their own mistaken thinking, is compassion even necessary?

What we say and what we feel

Lately, I have wrestled with that question not as an abstract philosophical puzzle, but as one I am living each day. And I’ve found that when I am in my own season of strain—when health, work, or circumstance feels relentless—compassion can begin to feel thin. I may still choose to behave kindly. I might still say the right words. But inside, reserves feel low. And then, when another person’s grief, outrage, or anxiety appears before me, the Stoic teachings whisper to me, but I sometimes struggle to respond.

Epictetus offers clarity and caution. When we see someone weeping, he says, we must remember that what troubles them is not the event itself, but their judgment about it. Yet notice what he does not say. He does not advise us to withdraw or dismiss their pain. He warns us not to be “carried away” by appearances—and not to lose our own stability. This distinction matters.

Stoic compassion is not some kind of emotional contagion. It does not ask me to absorb another person’s distress, destabilizing us both. It is a disciplined refusal to confuse their inner world with ours. Stoicism is a philosophy of virtue—and justice binds us to other human beings.

If their suffering arises from mistaken judgment, then so does mine. That realization humbles me. I am not standing outside the human condition, diagnosing it from a place of superiority. I am implicated in it. I know what it feels like when circumstances press hard, and my judgments falter. I know how convincing distress can feel. Compassion, then, becomes less about sharing emotion and more about recognizing shared fallibility.

The Stoic does not say, “Your pain is imaginary.” The Stoic says, “Your pain arises from judgment—and I know something about that.” From there, justice asks: what is the virtuous response?

No virtue in theatrical empathy

Sometimes it’s offering practical help—or a calm presence. And sometimes, it’s silence. But it is not performative care. Stoicism has no interest in merely appearing compassionate. There is no virtue in theatrical empathy that only destabilizes reason.

Stoic compassion is steady. It neither amplifies distress nor dismisses it. It refuses to be swept into another’s storm, but it also refuses to simply walk away from the shore.

Would Stoicism still hold if we were not compassionate? Technically, perhaps. We could always choose to cultivate personal tranquility, guard our judgments, and remain unmoved by others. But that would hollow out justice. And without justice, Stoicism loses its social dimension. We aren’t meant to perfect ourselves in isolation. We are rational and social beings. To live according to nature is to live in community.

Compassion as an intentional discipline

For me, especially in seasons when I feel stretched thin, compassion becomes an intentional discipline. It requires choosing not to let my own suffering narrow my moral field and remembering that the person in front of me is navigating their own internal errors, just as I am navigating mine.

When I can’t muster warmth, I can still muster fairness. When I am tired and weary, I can still behave in a just way. And, when I can’t bring myself to feel expansive empathy, I can still choose to act with restraint. And in those moments, that is enough.

Stoic compassion doesn’t require that we exhibit emotional abundance. It requires clarity about what is mine to govern—my judgments, my actions, my character—and humility about the fact that others are engaged in the same difficult work.

If each of us is responsible for our own judgments, then each of us is also responsible for how we treat fellow travelers who stumble under theirs.

Compassion, then, may not be named among the four virtues. But it is woven through them. And in moments when I am suffering and observe the suffering of others, it presents itself in a quiet commitment not to let that suffering harden me.

Andi Sciacca serves as the Chief Academic Officer and as the Director of Accreditation & Assessment for the European Graduate School. She is also the Environmental Sustainability Program Coordinator for the FEED MKE Program for the City of Milwaukee.

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