By: Tommy Druen
Guest Columnist
History tends to remember leaders for the battles they fought or the territories they conquered. We think of Napoleon, Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan. But the Roman Emperor Diocletian is remembered for something far more unusual.
When he became emperor in 284 AD, the empire was teetering on collapse. Decades of political instability and economic decline had left Rome vulnerable to forces both internal and external. Over the next twenty years, Diocletian imposed reforms that restored order and fundamentally reshaped the empire. By any measure, he had become the most powerful man in the known world.
Then, at the age of 62, he did the unthinkable. He voluntarily walked away from it all.
In 305 AD, Diocletian abdicated the throne and returned to the Dalmatian coast, where he was born. There he settled into a quieter life. It was an almost unimaginable decision. Roman emperors died in office, often violently. Never had one surrendered power willingly.
Before long, the stability he had built began to fracture. Rivals fought for control. Diocletian’s allies pleaded with him to return and restore order. According to the fifth-century Epitome de Caesaribus, he politely declined. “If you could see the cabbages I have planted here with my own hands,” he replied, “you surely would never have thought to request this.”
The response is revealing because it exposes how we project ourselves onto others. His allies assumed that what mattered most to them must also matter to him. They could not conceive of someone who had possessed unlimited power genuinely prefer the satisfaction of a peaceful life growing vegetables.
We still make that mistake.
It is easy to assume that our ambitions are universal. We instinctively measure success by the standards that motivate us. If we value career advancement, we wonder why someone would decline a promotion. If we champion a cause, we struggle to understand why another person might not care. If we long to travel the world, we cannot imagine someone perfectly content never leaving home.
Yet, not everyone wants to take the same road on a map. Fulfillment is not found in achieving the same destination. It comes from discovering the route that genuinely fits the person making the journey.
The danger comes when we begin evaluating other people’s lives through the lens of our own priorities. We call someone unambitious because they declined an opportunity we would have embraced. We assume another person has settled because they stopped climbing a ladder we ourselves are eager to ascend. In reality, they may simply be pursuing a different definition of a life well lived.
Perhaps wisdom is not found in convincing everyone to share our aspirations. It lies in recognizing that we’ve each been created with different gifts and callings. Some are called to lead nations, others to serve neighbors. Some write books that reach millions, while others speak encouragement that changes a single life. A meaningful life should be measured not by how impressive it appears to everyone else, but by whether the person has found their own personal purpose.
That is why Diocletian’s decision still resonates seventeen centuries later. His cabbages were never really the point. They simply represented a life he had freely chosen over one the rest of the world considered more important.
There is freedom when you no longer feel compelled to chase someone else’s definition of success. There is grace in allowing others to pursue their own without questioning whether they should want what we want. Neither comes easily. Both are worth the struggle.
Not every life is meant to build an empire. Some are meant to cultivate a garden. The measure of either is not found in others’ opinions, but in whether a person finds their own achievement.
