Education – The quiet power of no opinion

There’s a certain magic in the way winter announces itself, not with fanfare, but with a whisper. It tiptoes quietly, stripping trees bare, biting at our breath, stilling the fields beneath soft grey skies. Leaves let go.

The world, briefly, falls quiet.

At school, that same stillness creeps into the grounds in early June. Students bustle, of course – they always do – but there’s a noticeable change. Our rhythm slows. The trees, stripped back, reveal something more honest: the bones of things. The stark beauty of what remains.

From time to time, particularly at this time of year, I slip a little philosophy into assemblies, much to the students’ bemusement. I like to think they enjoy it. Some, kindly, tell me they do. Not just because it’s a reprieve from hearing about detentions and house points, or from Mr Tennant’s campaign for more enthusiastic singing, but because there’s something reassuring about voices from the distant past. They offer perspective, wisdom, and a calm that can be hard to come by.

This week, it’s Marcus Aurelius: Roman emperor, stoic philosopher, and – at times – a very tired, very cold military commander stationed far from the comforts of home. While camped out in the forests and frontiers of central Europe, Aurelius began jotting down his thoughts in a private journal. He didn’t title it anything grand. Just “Things That Concern Myself.”

One passage that resonates goes like this: “It is in our power to have no opinion about a thing, and not to be disturbed in our soul.”

In a world where every second tweet or TikTok demands a response, where outrage is a currency and having an opinion feels like a requirement, this ancient advice feels radical, puzzling even.

Aurelius reminds us that meaning and opinion are optional. The thing itself, whether it’s someone’s political post, a celebrity scandal or neighbourhood drama, has no power to affect us unless we hand that power over. We can choose not to wade into the argument. We can choose not to have an opinion.

We can, quite reasonably, opt out.

This isn’t apathy. It’s discernment. It’s the quiet discipline of asking, “Does this serve me? Does this improve the world? Do I actually need to say something?”

Students like this. They understand the need to quieten their thoughts, calm their minds and take a breath. And just like winter strips away the non-essential in nature, so too can this way of thinking strip away our mental noise. What’s left, then, is space, for clarity, kindness and gratitude.

Albert Camus once wrote: “In the midst of winter, I found there was, within me, an invincible summer.”

Even when the outside world chills and chatters, we can choose stillness, strength, letting go of what doesn’t serve.

Aurelius tells us we can choose peace. Camus reminds us that we already have it, if we care to look. The “invincible summer” isn’t something we earn by winning arguments or keeping up with the news. It’s the quiet strength of knowing when to let go.

As winter settles, our challenge is to embrace its lesson. Pare back the noise and, in the stillness, rediscover that invincible summer that’s always been ours to claim. We don’t, as it turns out, need to have an opinion about everything.