“The Stoic Guide to Surviving Family Holidays (Without Alcohol or Attempted Homicide Charges)”
Feast with virtue. And pie.
Let’s get this out of the way: nothing tests your commitment to Stoic philosophy like a holiday gathering with family.
I don’t care how many Marcus Aurelius quotes you’ve memorized, how many calming podcasts you’ve listened to, or how long you sat in silent meditation while your children used you as a piece of living furniture. When Thanksgiving rolls around and your extended family enters your home like a mildly judgmental flash mob with casseroles, all bets are off.
There is no battlefield like the dinner table.
The Ancient Romans Had It Easy
Yes, yes—life was hard in ancient Rome. Gladiators. Plague. Lead poisoning from the plumbing. But do you think Seneca ever had to explain cryptocurrency to his cousin Todd who still believes Dogecoin is a retirement strategy? No.
Did Epictetus ever have to sit through an unsolicited 45-minute slideshow about his aunt’s pickleball tournament in Sarasota? Also no.
But you? You brave, slightly bloated modern Stoic—you must face this trial. And you must do it sober.
Rule #1: Temperance Means Not Throwing the Yams
Let us begin with Temperance, which in Stoic terms means “self-control,” but during Thanksgiving means “not leaping across the table to remove the carving knife from Uncle Gary’s hand while he explains why the moon landing was staged by lizard people.”
You must remain calm, like a monk who just found inner peace and also forgot to bring a side dish.
When your sister’s new boyfriend, Kale (who smells like patchouli and speaks only in NFT metaphors), says, “Actually, turkey is a symbol of capitalist oppression,” you nod slowly.
Then you eat a bite of mashed potatoes and remember that Marcus Aurelius ruled an empire without ever once shouting “YOU PEOPLE ARE INSANE!”—at least not at dinner.
Rule #2: Justice Is Letting Everyone Speak (Even If It Kills You Inside)
On of the main elements of the virtue of Justice is giving everyone their due.
It means letting Grandma say the group prayer even if it involves 17 minutes of aggressively specific blessings, including but not limited to:
- “Please keep the cat from jumping on the counter”
- “Help Cheryl find a decent boyfriend this year”
- “May Steve’s colonoscopy results come back clear”
You stand in respectful silence, even as your knees begin to lock and you wonder if you’re legally allowed to pass out from spiritual overload.
Justice also means not correcting your cousin Jessica when she says she’s on a “celery cleanse” and that gluten is “toxic to her moon cycle.”
You let her speak. Because Stoicism is about accepting the limits of reason. Especially at the kid’s table.
Rule #3: Control What You Can. Like the Gravy.
One of the core teachings of Stoicism is that we only control our own actions. Not the weather. Not the news. Not whatever your uncle is yelling about from the living room.
You don’t control the fact that the family made a group decision to watch a Hallmark Christmas movie that appears to have been written by someone with a traumatic head injury and a peppermint addiction.
What do you control? You control how much gravy you put on your plate. You control the timing of your bathroom breaks. You control whether or not you enter the “who makes the best stuffing” debate. (You do not. It’s a trap. Do not engage.)
You even control your own breath—though that gets harder when Aunt Linda leans over and says:
“You still doing that weird bearded man thing?”
Yes, Linda. You’re growing a beard. You’re meditating. You’ve got a planner. You’ve read Marcus Aurelius, Epictetus, and half of Atomic Habits.
And no, you’re not going to snap.
You’re going to smile, pass the gravy, and whisper calmly to yourself: “This too shall pass. Like gas. Or childhood.”
Rule #4: Alcohol Is Optional. Inner Peace Is Not.
Look, we’re not here to judge. Some people use wine to survive family functions.
But if you’re going the Stoic route—aka the “(somewhat) sober monk at the Thanksgiving rave” strategy—then you’re going to need to bring your A-game. You’ll need mental preparation. You’ll need a calm voice. You’ll need carbs.
Your weapon is not Merlot. Your weapon is perspective.
Because no matter what’s going on around you, the Stoic remembers this: you are not the chaos—you are the calm in the middle of it.
Even when Dad burns the turkey. Even when the dog knocks over the jello mold. Even when someone starts yelling about the Electoral College while holding a hot pie.
You will sit there, steady and silent, and maybe just a little bloated. And when it’s finally over, you will rise—dignified, gravy-stained, and stronger than you were before.
Final Rule: Bring the Pie. Leave the Drama.
And that, my friend, is the Stoic guide to surviving family holidays:
- Temperance over tantrums.
- Justice over judgment.
- Pie over everything.
And when it’s all said and done, when the dishes are finally in the sink and Uncle Gary is asleep in the recliner making gentle warthog noises—take a moment.
Breathe. Reflect. Rebutton your jeans.
And remember: you are not just a man. You are an Hombre Man—a brother in the pursuit of a fuller, calmer, pie-rich life. A man of virtue, humor, and rugged dignity who made it through Thanksgiving without a single outburst or wine-induced political rant.
You’re doing great. Now go hide in the garage.
Try our newest coffee blends
