Being able to take control of my life again, take control of what

Host: The city gym hummed with the low rhythm of night — the faint buzz of fluorescent lights, the steady thump of bass from a faraway speaker, and the occasional clang of metal meeting metal. The place was nearly empty, save for the hum of treadmills and the scent of sweat, rubber, and determination.

Jack sat on a bench, sweat dripping down his temple, staring at his reflection in the long mirror opposite him. His breathing was heavy, his hands trembling — not from exhaustion, but from something deeper. Jeeny stood nearby, tying her hair into a ponytail, her expression a quiet mix of focus and concern.

Host: It was late — too late for small talk, too late for pretenses. This was the hour when honesty showed up uninvited, when the body and soul started confessing in silence.

Jeeny: “EJ Johnson once said — ‘Being able to take control of my life again, take control of what I'm eating and my fitness is enlightening and empowering.’”

Host: Her voice was gentle, yet charged — as though the words carried more weight than they appeared to.

Jack: “Control. That’s the word everyone’s chasing, isn’t it? But it’s a myth, Jeeny. You think you’ve got it, and then life reminds you who’s boss.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But sometimes, it’s not about controlling life, Jack — it’s about reclaiming your self from it. That’s what EJ meant. Not about perfection, but about saying, ‘This is mine again.’”

Jack: “You think eating salad and lifting weights can do that?”

Jeeny: “No. But choice can. Every time you choose something for yourself — something that isn’t dictated by your fear, your habits, or other people — that’s a revolution.”

Host: Jack picked up a water bottle, rolling it between his palms. His reflection stared back at him from the mirror — the man he used to be, the man he was trying to become, and the ghost of the one he’d left behind.

Jack: “I used to believe in control. I planned every part of my life — my career, my finances, my body. I had it all in a spreadsheet. But then my mother got sick, my job disappeared, and suddenly my carefully designed blueprint meant nothing. You can’t spreadsheet grief, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, you can’t. But you can rebuild after it. Control isn’t about never falling apart — it’s about what you do when you do. EJ didn’t talk about control like a cage; he talked about it like freedom.”

Jack: “Freedom? Sounds ironic. Everyone in this gym is chasing control — calorie counting, routines, diets — like discipline is salvation. We pretend we’re taking control, but really we’re just punishing ourselves for losing it.”

Host: Jeeny’s expression softened. She sat beside him, her hands resting lightly on her knees, her voice lowering like the dimmed lights above.

Jeeny: “You’re right — some people chase control to escape. But others use it to return. There’s a difference between restriction and redemption.”

Jack: “Redemption. You always find a way to make pain sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. You ever watch someone who’s been broken start over? Every push-up, every mile, every meal — it’s not about the body. It’s about belief. It’s about learning to trust your will again.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, heavy and luminous, like something sacred. Jack looked at the floor, his jaw tight, his breath uneven.

Jack: “You know, I used to run. Every morning before work. Five miles, religiously. I stopped after she died. The first day I didn’t run, I told myself I needed a break. The second day, I said I’d do it tomorrow. And then… tomorrow became a year.”

Jeeny: “And what brought you here tonight?”

Jack: “A look. Some stranger looked at me like I was tired, and I realized — I was. Tired of being tired.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s your start. You can’t take control of your life until you admit you’ve lost it. That’s what most people never do.”

Host: A long pause. Only the faint sound of a treadmill somewhere in the corner, the footsteps rhythmic like a heartbeat. Jack stood slowly, walking toward the mirror again. He touched it — fingertips pressing against his own reflection, as though testing whether the man inside still existed.

Jack: “You ever notice how mirrors never lie? No matter how much you hate what they show.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why people avoid them. But mirrors don’t just reflect who you are — they remind you who you could be.”

Jack: “You sound like a motivational coach.”

Jeeny: “No. I sound like someone who’s been lost before.”

Host: She stood beside him now, their reflections side by side — two shapes drawn in light and fatigue.

Jeeny: “When I was sixteen, I battled an eating disorder. Everyone thought I wanted to be thin. But what I wanted was control. I couldn’t control the chaos in my family — so I controlled what went into my mouth. It nearly killed me. That’s why I understand what EJ Johnson meant. Real control isn’t about limitation — it’s about liberation.”

Jack: Quietly. “And how’d you find your way back?”

Jeeny: “By realizing that healing isn’t about winning against your body. It’s about listening to it. Making peace with the parts that once felt like enemies.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly. His breathing evened out, his shoulders lowering as if something unseen had loosened its grip. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, washing everything in pale silver.

Jack: “You know, for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel like I’m trying to fight my body. I’m just… trying to meet it where it is.”

Jeeny: “That’s all control ever really is — not domination, but partnership. You don’t command your life; you collaborate with it.”

Host: The clock on the far wall ticked past midnight. Outside, the rain had started, tapping gently against the glass, softening the sharpness of the world.

Jack: “You think it’s possible to ever really start over?”

Jeeny: “Every day. Every breath. That’s what empowerment is — not arriving somewhere perfect, but realizing you’re allowed to begin again, as many times as it takes.”

Host: He smiled — a small, tired, genuine smile — and picked up the towel, wiping the sweat from his face.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? I came here tonight just to get through a workout. Instead, I feel like I’m... waking up.”

Jeeny: “Good. That’s what control should feel like — not exhaustion, but awakening.”

Host: She walked toward the exit, the glow of the EXIT sign tracing her silhouette in red. Jack lingered a moment longer, staring at his reflection — no longer as a critic, but as a witness.

The rain outside grew heavier, but he didn’t rush to leave. He stood still, breathing, letting the sound fill the silence inside him.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel chained to his past or afraid of his future.

He felt — as Jeeny said — awake.

Host: As the lights dimmed, the city outside shimmered beneath the rain, and the gym — once a temple of punishment — felt instead like a place of quiet rebirth.

And in that fragile, rain-soaked moment, control wasn’t about holding on anymore —
it was about returning,
reclaiming,
and finally, becoming.