What makes this arresting is the word "demand"—not hope for, not wish upon, but *demand*, as if excellence were something owed to you by the universe rather than a gift to be begged for. Epictetus, a former slave, understood that self-respect isn't about arrogance; it's about refusing the quiet desperation of perpetually postponing your own dignity. When you catch yourself settling for the third-rate version of your own life—the job you've outgrown, the friendship that drains without nourishing, the daily routine that asks nothing of you—you're answering his question with another question: what am I waiting for? The real sting is that there's never a perfect time to start insisting on better; there's only now, and the cost of delay compounds silently.