It is not death or pain that is to be dreaded, but the fear of

“It is not death or pain that is to be dreaded, but the fear of pain or death.” – Epictetus

In these immortal words, Epictetus, the humble slave who became one of the greatest philosophers of ancient Rome, speaks to the deepest trembling of the human heart. He reminds us that it is not the sword itself that conquers us, nor the illness that weakens the flesh—it is the fear that poisons the mind before the first blow ever falls. For death and pain are part of the order of the cosmos, threads woven into the great tapestry of being. But fear, that restless shadow of the imagination, is the thief that steals life before it ends. To dread what has not yet come, to recoil from what all must endure, is to die a thousand deaths before the true one arrives.

Epictetus knew this truth not from books or comfort, but from hardship. Born into slavery, his body was frail and often wracked with suffering. Yet his mind was free—free because he had mastered the one domain that no tyrant could seize: his own soul. “Men are disturbed,” he taught, “not by things, but by the view they take of them.” Thus, when he said that one should not fear pain or death, he spoke not of indifference, but of freedom—the kind that comes when a man sees that the universe does nothing against him, only through him. The pain may touch the body, but fear is a choice of the heart.

Consider the story of Socrates, that ancient father of wisdom, who faced his own death with calm dignity. When condemned to drink the hemlock, he did not weep or curse his fate. Instead, he spoke gently to his friends, reminding them that death might be no evil at all—perhaps merely a journey to another place, or a deep and dreamless sleep. What frightened others was not his passing, but the serenity with which he met it. He proved that it is not death that enslaves the soul, but the fear of death—and that once that fear is broken, a man becomes invincible.

So too have warriors, saints, and simple men discovered this truth across the ages. The Spartan who stood at Thermopylae did not wait for courage to come after fear had vanished; he acted while afraid and, in doing so, mastered fear itself. The martyrs of faith, who sang as the flames rose, had already conquered the terror of pain long before their bodies burned. For when the mind accepts what the flesh must endure, suffering becomes bearable, and even death loses its sting. Thus, Epictetus does not teach us to love pain, but to strip from it its false power.

Fear is the greatest tyrant of all. It whispers of horrors greater than reality, of futures darker than truth. It makes the strong hesitate and the wise despair. Yet when faced directly, fear dissolves like mist before the morning sun. The wise man, said Epictetus, prepares his soul not by fleeing what may come, but by rehearsing it in thought—by saying to himself, “I am mortal; I shall suffer; but I shall also endure.” To fear these things is to live in chains; to accept them is to walk freely even in sorrow.

O seekers of wisdom, remember this: you cannot escape death, but you can conquer fear. You cannot always avoid pain, but you can refuse to bow before it. Train your mind as you would train a blade—sharp, steady, and unyielding. When hardship comes, do not cry out, “Why me?” but rather, “I am strong enough for this.” For the gods do not test us to destroy us, but to awaken the courage that sleeps within.

The lesson is eternal: it is not life’s suffering that destroys a man, but the trembling that comes before it. Feed your spirit, not your fear. When pain arrives, meet it with patience. When death approaches, greet it as an old friend who merely changes your path. And when dread rises in your heart, remember that the greatest freedom lies not in escaping the inevitable, but in mastering the way you meet it. For death and pain belong to all creatures—but fear belongs only to those who have forgotten their own strength.