Always Do Your Best. Your best is going to change from moment to

Host: The rain had stopped, but the world still shimmered with its memory. The café’s windows were streaked with trails of silver, and the air outside smelled of wet stone and fresh beginnings. Inside, the lamplight was warm and patient — soft jazz hummed through the speakers, mingling with the clink of cups and the quiet turning of thoughts.

Jack sat by the window, his hands wrapped around a cooling cup of black coffee. He looked exhausted — not from labor, but from living. Jeeny entered, shaking droplets from her coat, her eyes gentle but awake, carrying that calm energy that made even silence feel kind.

She sat across from him, resting her chin on her hand, studying him as though reading the last page of a long book.

Jeeny: (softly) “Don Miguel Ruiz once said, ‘Always do your best. Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse and regret.’”

Jack: (smirking tiredly) “That sounds like something a therapist would stitch on a pillow.”

Jeeny: “Or something a survivor would carve into their heart.”

Host: The steam from her tea rose gently, twisting like a question. Outside, the streetlights reflected on puddles, turning the world into a trembling mosaic of amber and shadow.

Jack: “Doing your best sounds noble, but it’s too vague. My best on some days is getting out of bed. On others, it’s rewriting the world. Where’s the line?”

Jeeny: “There isn’t one. That’s the point. The line moves with your humanity.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “So what — we just lower the bar when we feel bad?”

Jeeny: (shaking her head) “No. We honor the truth of the moment. Ruiz didn’t say ‘do the best.’ He said ‘do your best.’ There’s humility in that — not performance.”

Host: A pause — the kind that stretched, not uncomfortably, but like a held breath between understanding and resistance. The rain outside began again, faintly tapping the glass — not intrusive, just rhythmic, steady as thought.

Jack: “You talk like guilt’s optional.”

Jeeny: “It is, if you understand compassion.”

Jack: “Compassion for yourself is a luxury most people can’t afford.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s the foundation for everything else. You can’t build peace on self-hate. You can’t build purpose on shame.”

Host: Her words settled gently, but they carried the gravity of truth. Jack stared at his reflection in the darkened window — a man caught between fatigue and defiance.

Jack: “Maybe. But guilt drives improvement. Without it, wouldn’t we all just settle?”

Jeeny: “You don’t need guilt to grow. You need awareness. Guilt punishes — awareness transforms.”

Jack: (leaning back) “That sounds beautiful in theory. But the world doesn’t reward effort, it rewards outcome. ‘Doing your best’ doesn’t pay the bills.”

Jeeny: “No, but it keeps you human while you’re earning them. There’s a difference between striving and self-destruction. Between giving your all and giving yourself away.”

Host: The café grew quieter as the night deepened. The barista dimmed the lights, and the faint click of the espresso machine became a kind of heartbeat in the background.

Jeeny: “When Ruiz says ‘avoid self-judgment,’ he’s not saying ‘don’t reflect.’ He’s saying, stop turning reflection into self-violence. Every time you say you’re not enough, you forget that enough changes with circumstance.”

Jack: “So, if I fail, I just tell myself it’s fine?”

Jeeny: “No. You tell yourself you’re learning.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. ‘It’s fine’ stops the story. ‘I’m learning’ continues it.”

Host: Her tone was calm, but her eyes carried fire — not anger, but belief. The kind that makes people want to sit up straighter, breathe deeper. Jack did both.

Jack: “You know, you sound like someone who’s never been haunted by regret.”

Jeeny: “I have. That’s why I understand the cure. Regret is love misplaced — the wish that we’d known better before we did. But that’s all experience is: learning what your best used to be.”

Host: The wind outside shifted, and the doorbell chimed faintly as someone left — the sound of endings mingling with beginnings. Jack’s expression softened; his voice grew lower, quieter, as if speaking to an old wound.

Jack: “When I was younger, I thought ‘doing my best’ meant never failing. Now I think it means failing better.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. Growth isn’t about never breaking — it’s about breaking with grace.”

Jack: “And surviving the aftermath.”

Jeeny: “No. Living through it.”

Host: The rain eased again, leaving streaks on the window that caught the streetlight like veins of gold. The air felt lighter, the way it does when words have finally released something unspoken.

Jack: “You know, Ruiz’s line about sickness hit me. ‘Your best changes when you’re ill.’ That’s mercy in a sentence. We forget that rest can be a form of effort too.”

Jeeny: “And surrender can be a kind of courage.”

Jack: “You really think not pushing yourself is bravery?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Because it means you trust yourself enough to stop fighting for a moment.”

Host: Silence again — this time, tender. The café seemed to exhale around them. The clock ticked softly, and the aroma of tea drifted between them like something sacred.

Jack: “I wish someone had told me that years ago.”

Jeeny: “Would you have listened?”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Probably not.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the timing’s perfect.”

Host: She reached across the table, her hand resting over his. The contact was light, steady — like forgiveness itself made visible.

Jeeny: “Doing your best isn’t about achievement, Jack. It’s about alignment — living honestly with what you have, right now. No pretending. No punishing. Just presence.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “And that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s everything.”

Host: Outside, the last of the rain faded, leaving behind a clean hush. The city was washed new, glistening under streetlamps. Inside, two cups sat empty, and two souls, for once, were full.

The words of Don Miguel Ruiz lingered — not as advice, but as revelation:

That perfection is illusion,
and effort is prayer.
That the measure of one’s best
is not consistency, but compassion.
And that forgiveness, freely given to oneself,
is the first step toward peace.

Host: The lights dimmed; the café prepared to close.
Jeeny smiled, gathering her coat. Jack looked lighter — not saved, but soothed.

As they stepped into the night, the city greeted them with clean air, wet streets, and possibility.

And for the first time in a long while,
Jack whispered into the silence — not to the world, but to himself —

Jack: “I’ll just do my best.”

Host: And the wind, gentle and knowing, carried the words away —
like a small, perfect promise kept.