Stoicism, Stories, and the Softening of My Armour

I used to wear Stoicism like armour.

“We are disturbed not by things, but by the views we take of them.”

There’s a line from Epictetus that’s followed me around for years:

“We are disturbed not by things, but by the views we take of them.”

For a long time, that sentence felt like a superpower.
If my suffering wasn’t really about events, but about how I viewed them, then maybe I could think my way out of pain. Maybe, if I just trained my mind hard enough, I could be unshakeable.

Spoiler: I did become harder to shake.
I also became harder to reach.

Stoicism helped me survive.
It also helped me build armour I didn’t know how to take off.

This is a story about Stoicism, “facts vs stories,” what therapy gave me that philosophy alone didn’t, and how I’m learning to use all of it more gently now—like tools in a kit instead of weapons I turn on myself.

How Stoicism First Helped Me

I’m not a Stoic scholar, just a very human reader who was desperate for something that made life make sense.

The pieces that hooked me were simple:

In messy real life, this sounded like:

There’s real wisdom there. Stoicism gave me:

It helped me function when my inner world was chaotic.

But then something subtle happened.

The more I leaned on Stoicism, the more it slid from:

“I have some choice in how I respond”

into:

“If I’m hurting, it’s because I’m doing it wrong.”

And that’s where the armour started welding itself on.

When Stoicism Becomes Armour

On paper, Stoicism talks about virtue, wisdom, courage, justice, temperance.

In my head, it became something else:

When people hurt me, my default became:

On the surface, that looked like resilience.
Inside, it was more like abandonment—of myself.

Because sometimes what’s happening isn’t okay.
Sometimes your emotional reaction isn’t a faulty “story,” it’s a nervous system screaming, “This is not safe. This is not fair. This is too much.”

Stoicism helped me tolerate what maybe shouldn’t have been tolerated.
It helped me endure instead of leave.
It helped me rationalize instead of feel.

I don’t think Stoicism caused that on its own.
But the way I used it became:

“If I’m disturbed, the problem must be my perception. Not the situation.”

That’s armour. Thick, polished, philosophical armour.

And eventually, it got too heavy.

Enter Therapy: Facts vs Stories

Therapy didn’t arrive in my life as a lightning bolt. It was more like exhaustion finally raising a hand and saying, “We can’t keep doing it this way.”

One of the most powerful ideas I met there was the distinction between facts and stories.

In cognitive-behavioural terms:

For example:

Fact:
Someone important to me reads my message and doesn’t reply all day.

Stories my brain offers:

The emotion that follows isn’t just from the fact (no reply).
It’s from the story I told about what that silence meant.

CBT, narrative therapy, and mindfulness all, in their own ways, circle this idea:

Therapists sometimes say things like:

“Can we separate what we know from what we’re imagining?”
“What actually happened?”
“What’s the story you’re telling yourself about what happened?”

That language did something important for me:

It gently pried my fingers off the idea that my first thought was the truth.

Stoicism and Therapy: Same Insight, Different Tone

Here’s the interesting part:

The Epictetus quote and the facts-vs-stories idea are… cousins.

“We are disturbed not by things, but by the views we take of them.”

and

“It’s not just the event; it’s the narrative we attach to it.”

are pointing to a similar truth.

But therapy added nuances Stoicism, as I practiced it, was missing:

  1. Feelings aren’t the enemy.
    • Yes, my interpretation matters.
    • But my pain is also information, not a moral failing.
  2. Not all stories are “bad.”
    • Some stories are protective, born from old wounds.
    • Some stories are invitations to set boundaries.
    • Some stories point to needs I’ve been ignoring.
  3. We don’t question stories to shut feelings down.
    • We question them to understand ourselves better.
    • And to choose responses that are kinder to us.

Said differently:

That combination was… unsettling at first.
Because if my feelings matter, I can’t just philosophize them away. I have to listen.

How All of This Impacted Me

Here’s what it looked like on the inside.

Before: Stoic Armour

My inner voice was very reasonable and very cold.

Then: Therapy + Facts vs Stories

And slowly:

Now: Learning to Soften

I still value Stoicism.
But I no longer want it to be my only instrument.

These days, I try to:

Sometimes that need is acceptance.
Sometimes it’s a boundary.
Sometimes it’s grief.
Sometimes it’s leaving.
Sometimes it’s asking for reassurance instead of pretending I’m fine.

It’s messy. It’s not very Stoic in the classical sense.
But it feels more human.

A Simple Practice: Facts, Stories, and Softening

If any of this resonates with you, here’s a practice I’m trying to build into my own life.

You can use it in a quiet moment when something stings.

1. Start with the Fact

Ask yourself:

“If a camera were recording this, what would it see and hear?”

Write that down or say it plainly, without adjectives.

That’s the fact.

2. Name the Story

Now ask:

“What story is my mind telling about this?”

Be honest. Let it sound as dramatic as it feels:

That’s the story.

3. Notice the Feeling

Then:

“How does that story make me feel in my body?”

This part is key: you’re not arguing with your feelings. You’re acknowledging them.

4. Apply a Gentle Stoic Lens

Now, in a kinder voice, try the Epictetus move:

“Is this the only possible view I can take of this?”
“If someone loved me and saw this, how might they see it?”

Not to erase your story. Just to add options:

5. Ask: “What Do I Need Right Now?”

Finally:

“Given the fact, and given how I feel, what do I need?”

Maybe it’s:

This is where Stoicism and therapy meet, for me:

Using These as Tools, Not Tests

I used to treat Stoicism like an exam:

Now I’m trying to treat Stoicism, facts-vs-stories, CBT-style thinking… like tools scattered on a workbench.

Some days I need the Stoic wrench:

Some days I need the therapy screwdriver:

Some days I need something else entirely:

The biggest shift?

I no longer want any philosophy or framework to be a reason to ignore my own pain.

If Stoicism helps you show up with courage and clarity—beautiful.
If facts-vs-stories helps you loosen the grip of old narratives—also beautiful.

But if any of it becomes armour you can’t take off…
you’re allowed to put it down for a while.

You’re allowed to be a human first and a Stoic second.