What surrounds us we endure better for giving it a name - and

“What surrounds us we endure better for giving it a name – and moving on.” Thus speaks Emil Cioran, the philosopher of shadows, whose words are heavy with the weight of human suffering yet burn with the flame of clarity. In this saying lies an ancient wisdom: that to name a thing is to strip it of its terror, and to release it is to keep it from binding the soul. For what is nameless haunts us as a ghost, but once called forth by its name, it becomes mortal, bearable, and finally passable. Naming is the act of mastery, and moving on is the act of freedom.

The ancients knew this well. When men encountered forces beyond their understanding—thunder, sea, storm—they gave them names: Zeus, Poseidon, Thor. In naming the chaos of nature, they tamed it in their minds, making the unbearable less fearsome. The storm still raged, but now it had a face, a will, a story. Thus they could endure it. What Cioran declares is no different: the trials that surround us, when unnamed, are like shapeless beasts that gnaw at our spirit. But when we say, “This is grief. This is fear. This is failure. This is loss,” then we have given form to the formless, and we find the strength to stand against it.

Consider the story of Viktor Frankl, who endured the unspeakable horror of Nazi concentration camps. Surrounded by death, cruelty, and despair, many sank into hopelessness. Yet Frankl, a man of the mind, sought to give shape to his suffering. He named it: not merely torment, but a test of meaning. In calling it so, he stripped it of senselessness and turned it into a battlefield for the human spirit. Later, he wrote Man’s Search for Meaning, showing how survival depended on giving one’s suffering a name and purpose. Through naming, he could endure; through moving on from mere despair into meaning, he could live.

For the soul cannot forever wrestle with shadows. To leave suffering undefined is to let it swell until it fills the horizon. But to name it is to place it within boundaries, to say, “You are not infinite. You are pain, but not all of me.” This act grants the heart room to breathe. And then comes the greater act: to move on. To rise from the ashes not bound to the past, but walking toward the light of what lies ahead. For naming alone is not enough; one must also depart from the prison one has defined.

O children of tomorrow, hear this: when sorrow surrounds you, do not flee from it in silence. Speak its name aloud, even if your voice trembles. For in naming, you lessen its hold; in naming, you proclaim your mastery. But do not linger forever in that place. To dwell on the named sorrow is to turn it into an idol. Instead, take one step forward. Walk on, carrying wisdom but leaving the chains behind.

The lesson is plain: clarity is power, movement is freedom. Name your grief, your fear, your failure, your anger—so that it no longer rules you as an unseen tyrant. Then, do not remain in its presence, but move on, for life is forward and never backward. Keep a journal to give names to your struggles; speak them in prayer, in counsel, or even to yourself in the still night. And once named, resolve to leave them behind like footprints fading on the path.

Thus remember Cioran’s wisdom: What surrounds us we endure better for giving it a name—and moving on. For in the act of naming, you bring order to chaos; in the act of moving, you reclaim your destiny. And this is the way of the strong: to look upon the storm, to call it by its name, and then to walk onward, unshaken, into the next dawn.