Seeking Wisdom: The Ancient Art of Advice

Long before Cheryl Strayed became Sugar, long before Ann Landers or Dear Abby, humans have sought guidance from those they believed could offer clarity in moments of confusion. The advice column as we know it today is simply the latest iteration of an impulse that stretches back thousands of years: the need to share our struggles and receive counsel from others. 

In ancient Athens, citizens gathered in the Agora not just to conduct business but to debate ethics and seek wisdom from philosophers like Socrates. These public exchanges were a form of communal advice-giving, where personal dilemmas became opportunities for collective reflection. Similarly, in ancient China, Confucian scholars offered guidance on familial duty and moral conduct. Across cultures and centuries, the pattern repeats: people in distress turn to those perceived as wiser, kinder, or more experienced. 

Religious traditions formalized this impulse. Buddhist monks offered spiritual counsel. Catholic priests heard confessions. Rabbis interpreted Talmudic laws. Islamic scholars issued fatwas to guide the faithful. In each tradition, advice was not merely practical but deeply moral, tying personal choices to larger questions of how to live a good life. By the 17th century, this ancient practice found a new home in print. The Athenian Mercury, published in London starting in1691, is widely considered the first advice column. Readers submitted questions on everything from science to romance. The format proved widely popular because if offered something newspapers had not yet fully embraced: intimacy. Readers could see their private anxieties reflected in the questions of strangers and feel less alone.

The modern advice column exploded in the 19th century with figures like Dorothy Dix, whose syndicated column reached millions starting in 1896. Later, Ann Landers and Dear Abby became household names, offering sharp-witted counsel on everything from etiquette to adultery. Their success lay in their ability to balance empathy with authority, making readers feel heard while also challenging them to grow. 

What made these advice columns so powerful was not just the advice itself but the community they created. Readers wrote in knowing their letter might be published, that their struggle might resonate with thousands of others. The advice column became a public forum for private pain, a space where vulnerability was celebrated.

Cheryl Strayed’s “Dear Sugar” column, originally published on The Rumpus, stands firmly in this tradition while also transforming it. Like ancient philosophers, she uses personal stories to illuminate universal truths. Like religious counselors, she addresses not just what to do but how to live with integrity. Like her predecessors, she creates community among strangers. 

But Strayed does something more. She refuses the position of the all-knowing expert. Instead, she writes as someone who has been broken and rebuilt, who offers not answers but companionship. In doing so, she returns the advice column to its oldest roots: the idea that wisdom comes not from having all the answers but from the courage to sit with others in their uncertainty and say, “You are not alone.”

From the Agora to The Rumpus, the human need for guidance has remained constant. Tiny Beautiful Things reminds us that seeking advice is not a sign of weakness but an act of hope and community.