Enchiridion 35 — Do Not Hide a Right Action

When you have determined that something ought to be done and are doing it, never avoid being seen doing it, even if most people are likely to think otherwise about it. For if you are not acting rightly, avoid the act itself; but if you are acting rightly, why do you fear those who will criticize you wrongly?

This brief chapter presents a clean and bracing piece of logic about moral courage and the fear of others' opinions. It addresses the common situation in which we have judged that a certain action is right — it "ought to be done" (poiēteon estin) — and yet we shrink from doing it openly, because we fear that most people will judge it differently, will misunderstand or criticize us. Epictetus dissolves this fear with a simple dilemma that admits no escape.

The logic is a clean fork. Either the action you are contemplating is right, or it is wrong. If it is wrong, then the problem is not being seen doing it — the problem is the act itself, and you should not do it at all, whether seen or unseen. "Avoid the act itself" (auto to ergon pheuge). But if it is right, then you have no reason whatever to fear being seen, because the criticism of those who would condemn a right action is simply wrong criticism — the error is theirs, not yours. "Why do you fear those who will criticize you wrongly?" There is no third option. The fear of being seen doing what you believe is right is therefore exposed as incoherent: it treats the opinions of others as having authority over the rightness of your action, when in fact their wrong judgment changes nothing about it.

The chapter's deeper teaching is about the relationship between conscience and reputation. The fear that makes us hide our right actions is the fear of others' disapproval — but that disapproval, when it is directed at genuinely right action, is simply mistaken, and a mistaken opinion has no claim on us. To hide a right action out of fear of wrong criticism is to grant the crowd's error more authority than your own reasoned conscience. Epictetus, consistent with the whole book, locates the standard of action in your own judgment of what is right (which is up to you), not in others' reception of it (which is not). The morally courageous person acts on their considered judgment of the right, openly, and lets the wrong opinions of others remain what they are — wrong, and therefore powerless to make a right action shameful.

The teaching that one should not hide right action out of fear of others' opinions resonates with the contemplative traditions' call to moral courage and integrity. The Gospel image of not hiding a lamp under a basket but setting it on a stand (Matthew 5:15), and the warning against being ashamed of the truth, reflect the same conviction: that what is genuinely good need not — and should not — be concealed out of fear of human disapproval. The light of right action is meant to be lived openly, not hidden from a crowd that might misjudge it.

The clean logical fork Epictetus offers — if wrong, don't do it; if right, don't fear being seen — parallels the universal wisdom that conscience, not public opinion, is the proper authority over action. The Socratic conviction (which Epictetus inherited) that one must follow reasoned judgment about the right regardless of the crowd's reaction, even unto death, is the deep background of this chapter. Across the philosophical and contemplative traditions, the person of integrity is defined precisely by acting on their considered judgment of the good rather than on the fluctuating approval of others.

The insight that the disapproval of others, when directed at genuine good, is simply mistaken and therefore without authority, echoes the teaching across traditions that we must distinguish between the judgment of conscience and the judgment of the crowd. The Sufi, the Stoic, the desert monastic, and the prophet alike face the temptation to soften or conceal the right in the face of social pressure, and the traditions converge on the same counsel: that the rightness of an action is not altered by how many misjudge it, and that to hide the good out of fear of wrong criticism is to surrender one's integrity to the very error one fears.

When you've genuinely determined that something is the right thing to do, do it openly — and stop letting the fear of others' disapproval drive you to hide it. Epictetus's logic is inescapable: if the action is actually wrong, then the problem isn't being seen, it's the action itself, and you shouldn't do it at all. But if the action is right, then those who would criticize you for it are simply mistaken, and a mistaken opinion has no authority over you. There is no situation in which hiding a right action out of fear of wrong criticism makes sense.

The teaching cuts through a common form of moral cowardice: the impulse to do what we believe is right only when no one is watching, or to soften and conceal our right actions to avoid disapproval. This grants the crowd's potential error more authority than our own reasoned conscience. The standard of right action is your own considered judgment of what ought to be done — which is in your power — not others' reception of it, which is not. Act on your conscience, openly, and let those who would wrongly criticize remain wrong. Their error cannot make a right action shameful.

This chapter is a tonic against the social pressures that lead us to hide or soften our convictions — to do the right thing only privately, or to stay quiet about a stance we believe is correct, for fear of disapproval, ridicule, or backlash. Epictetus's clean logic is a useful tool in exactly these moments: ask yourself honestly, is this action right or wrong? If you genuinely judge it wrong, then don't do it at all — the issue was never visibility. But if you judge it right, then the disapproval you fear is simply mistaken, and a mistaken opinion has no real claim on you.

The practical application is to notice the specific incoherence the chapter exposes: the impulse to hide a right action. When you catch yourself wanting to do what you believe is right only where no one will see, or to conceal a justified choice to avoid criticism, recognize that you're treating others' potential misjudgment as more authoritative than your own reasoned conscience. This doesn't mean being needlessly provocative or indifferent to others — it means that the rightness of your action, once genuinely established, is not subject to a vote. In an age of social-media pile-ons and intense pressure to conform, the discipline of acting openly on well-considered convictions — and letting wrong criticism remain wrong — is both rare and freeing. The crowd's error cannot make your right action shameful; only your own fear can make you hide it.