A life lesson for me is, how do you muster the courage to take on

Host: The airport hangar was vast and empty, echoing with the distant clang of metal tools and the faint hum of evening wind pressing against the steel doors. Outside, the runway lights flickered like a dotted path into darkness. A small single-engine plane sat in the center of the hangar, its paint chipped, its propeller still, waiting like a beast at rest.

Jack stood near the plane’s wing, jacket unzipped, hands buried deep in his pockets. His eyes followed the line of the runway lights, as if they led somewhere he wanted to go — but couldn’t.

From behind him, Jeeny entered, carrying a thermos and a folder full of maps. Her hair was pulled back, her boots dusted with travel. She looked like she belonged anywhere the ground ran out.

Host: The air smelled faintly of aviation fuel and uncertainty — that thick, metallic scent of choices waiting to be made.

Jeeny: (softly) “Ann Bancroft once said, ‘A life lesson for me is, how do you muster the courage to take on a new risk? Whether it’s starting up a business or taking on a new project or expedition. I think the risks that we take are all relative to the risk-taker.’”

(she places the maps on the plane’s wing) “You’ve been staring at that runway for an hour, Jack. You’re not afraid of the flight — you’re afraid of the start.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You make it sound poetic. But this isn’t the Arctic, Jeeny. It’s just a business pitch. A presentation. A chance to screw everything up — again.”

Jeeny: “That’s your expedition. Doesn’t have to be ice and blizzards to count as risk. Fear’s proportional — just like courage.”

Host: The plane’s metal skin glowed faintly under the overhead light. Beyond the hangar, a faint rumble of thunder rolled — distant, but close enough to listen.

Jack: “You really believe that? That the danger in crossing Antarctica and the fear of standing in a boardroom are somehow the same?”

Jeeny: “I believe they feel the same. The stomach drops the same way. The heartbeat speeds up. The voice inside you says, ‘You can’t do this.’ The scenery’s just different.”

Jack: (quietly) “Then why do some people jump anyway?”

Jeeny: “Because they remember the alternative — staying still.”

Host: The words echoed through the hangar, soft but heavy, the kind of truth that sits in the air long after it’s spoken.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s jumped before.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “I have. A few times. And every time, I thought I’d die. And every time, I didn’t.”

Jack: “What if this time’s the one where I do?”

Jeeny: “Then at least it’ll be living that kills you — not fear.”

Host: The wind outside howled once, shaking the hangar doors, as if to punctuate her words. A piece of paper slid off the wing, skittering across the floor, chasing invisible drafts.

Jack: “You know, people always talk about courage like it’s some grand thing — like a flag you plant or a roar you shout. But sometimes it’s just… getting out of bed and showing up. Even when you know you might fail.”

Jeeny: “That’s the only kind that counts. Bancroft wasn’t talking about the frozen kind of courage — she meant the everyday kind. The kind that looks boring from the outside but feels like climbing Everest from the inside.”

Jack: “You think she ever got used to it? The fear?”

Jeeny: “No one gets used to it. They just learn to pack it and carry it with them.”

Host: A moment of silence. The rain began — soft at first, then steady — tapping against the hangar’s roof in a rhythm that sounded almost like applause from the heavens.

Jack: “When I was younger, I thought taking risks meant being reckless. Quitting jobs. Selling everything. Starting from nothing. But now it just feels heavier. Every risk takes more out of you.”

Jeeny: “That’s because the older you get, the more you know what you can lose. Courage gets harder, not easier.”

Jack: (nodding) “So why keep doing it?”

Jeeny: “Because what’s the point of being safe if you never feel alive?”

Host: Her words hung in the air, simple but electric. The rain intensified, hammering on the tin roof, making the entire hangar hum like an instrument tuned to courage.

Jack: “You know what the real problem is? Everyone celebrates the ones who made it — the Ann Bancrofts, the explorers, the founders. But no one talks about the ones who risked everything and didn’t make it back.”

Jeeny: “Because we think failure disqualifies courage. But it doesn’t. Sometimes the bravest ones are the ones we never hear about.”

Jack: (sighing) “You always make risk sound noble.”

Jeeny: “Not noble — necessary. You don’t have to be an explorer to take one. You just have to be someone who still believes the next step could lead somewhere worth going.”

Host: The lights flickered, and for a brief second, the world was plunged into darkness — the kind that forces you to listen to your own breathing.

Jack: “And what if I take the leap, and it all falls apart again?”

Jeeny: “Then you build again. With steadier hands.”

Jack: (quietly) “You really think courage is relative?”

Jeeny: “Absolutely. To someone like Bancroft, it was crossing ice floes. To you, it’s starting again. To me, it’s forgiving myself for the last time I failed. Everyone’s Antarctica is different.”

Host: The rain softened, fading into a mist. The runway lights blinked steadily, leading into the dark — a path made of faith, not visibility.

Jeeny: (softly) “You don’t have to be fearless, Jack. You just have to start moving.”

Jack: (looking at the plane, then back at her) “You coming with me?”

Jeeny: “No. This flight’s yours.”

Host: He smiled faintly, the first real smile of the night. It wasn’t confidence, but acceptance — the kind that sits at the intersection of fear and resolve.

He stepped toward the plane, placing a hand on its cold metal skin. The echo of thunder rolled again, distant but promising.

Jeeny watched him climb in, her reflection caught in the glass of the cockpit — two stories merging for a moment, then separating again.

Host: The engine coughed, then roared to life. The propeller spun, slicing through the night with sound and motion. Jack’s face, lit by the instrument panel, was equal parts fear and freedom.

The plane taxied forward, rain misting off its wings, heading toward the open runway.

Jeeny: (calling out) “Remember what she said, Jack! Courage isn’t about size — it’s about proportion!”

Jack: (through the radio, smiling) “Then this one’s going to feel enormous.”

Host: The plane accelerated, wheels leaving the earth, slicing into the darkness — fragile, trembling, alive.

Jeeny stood alone, watching it rise until it vanished into the storm — just another small miracle of motion against the unknown.

Host: And as the sound faded, her voice, soft and sure, seemed to carry the final truth of Bancroft’s words:

Host: That risk is not the absence of fear —
but the choice to fly anyway.

Host: And the higher we go,
the more we learn that courage,
like flight,
is always relative to the altitude of the heart.