Ancient hunters used to hang coloured feathers along a rope to funnel deer toward a net. The feathers were harmless, the net significantly less so. The deer, terrified of the fluttering scraps of cloth, ran from this thing that couldn't hurt them and directly into the thing that would.

We're afraid of the wrong things. We fear embarrassment, discomfort, being disliked, missing out, and looking foolish. These are our feathers; they flutter and they're colourful and they seem threatening, but none of them can actually damage our character. Meanwhile, in our panic to avoid them, we sprint toward our nets: dishonesty, cowardice, compromising our principles, betraying the people who depend on us.

Consider a simple example. We're asked a question in a meeting and we don't know the answer. The feathers say: "If you admit ignorance, people will think less of you." So we bluff. We say something vaguely plausible and hope nobody notices. We've fled from embarrassment (a feather) straight into dishonesty (a net).

Or we stay in a job we know is wrong for us because leaving would mean uncertainty and a temporary drop in income. We've fled from financial discomfort (feather) into a slow erosion of our integrity and wellbeing (net).

Epictetus's advice is characteristically blunt. Use caution where it belongs (in the realm of our choices, our character, our assent) and use confidence where it also belongs (in the realm of things that can't actually make us worse as people). We've got the two backwards, and that's why we keep ending up tangled.

The feathers can't hurt us. The nets can. It's important to learn how to tell the difference.