Being proud of who we are as people is more important than

Host: The rain had begun hours ago — a steady, silver curtain falling over the city, muting everything into a kind of beautiful gray silence. Inside a small art studio tucked between two old buildings, the air smelled of turpentine, coffee, and paint. The walls were covered in unfinished canvases, faces half-formed, bodies blurred by hesitant strokes of color.

Jack stood before one of them, a cigarette dangling unlit from his lips, his eyes fixed on the image of a woman’s face — too perfect, too smooth. Jeeny sat nearby, cross-legged on a wooden stool, her hair falling loose over her shoulders, her hands stained with blue and gold paint.

She broke the quiet first, her voice soft but deliberate.
“Isla Fisher once said, ‘Being proud of who we are as people is more important than cutting into ourselves to create this false idea of beauty.’”

Jack: (gruffly) “Yeah, easy for her to say. She’s beautiful already.”

Jeeny: (without looking up) “Maybe that’s why it matters when she says it. Because even the people who fit the idea are tired of it.”

Host: A faint hum filled the room — the buzz of the old heater, the drip of rain outside, the scratch of a brush across canvas. The studio light flickered, bathing them in uneven gold and shadow.

Jack: “You know what I think? The whole ‘be yourself’ thing is a myth. Everyone’s performing. Every ad, every post, every mirror — we’ve all been trained to hate something about ourselves. The people who say they don’t care are just better actors.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Or maybe they’re survivors.”

Jack: (snorts) “Survivors of what? Vanity?”

Jeeny: “No. Of a world that profits from insecurity.”

Host: Jeeny rose and walked to the window, watching her own reflection ripple in the rain-streaked glass. The city lights fractured her image — a thousand versions of her face, all imperfect, all real.

Jeeny: “You know, I read that women in ancient Japan used to blacken their teeth because white ones were considered vulgar. In the Renaissance, pale skin meant beauty because it showed you didn’t work in the sun. Every era rewrites what’s beautiful — it’s all a game. But people are still bleeding for it. Literally.”

Jack: “That’s evolution, Jeeny. We adapt to what society values. You can’t just tell people to love themselves when the entire system rewards the opposite.”

Jeeny: “And yet, if no one does, the system wins.”

Host: The rain beat harder against the glass, a soft rhythm that seemed to underscore every word — a steady, endless reminder of something cleansing and raw. Jack took a drag from his unlit cigarette, just for the ritual of it, his jaw tight.

Jack: “You think pride fixes anything? You think telling people to love themselves pays their bills, gets them respect, makes them feel wanted? Society doesn’t value authenticity, Jeeny. It values presentation.”

Jeeny: (turning to face him) “Then maybe authenticity is rebellion. Maybe choosing to love yourself in a world that tells you not to is the purest kind of protest.”

Host: The light flickered again, catching in Jeeny’s eyes — not defiant, but alive, like a flame refusing to be extinguished.

Jack: “You talk like belief is armor. But the truth is, people will always crave validation. They’ll cut, starve, break themselves to fit in. It’s not weakness — it’s human nature.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe our nature needs to evolve. Because no species survives by destroying its own reflection.”

Host: A pause. The studio filled with the sound of the rain, the faint hum of neon outside, the smell of paint drying — all of it heavy with the weight of unspoken truth.

Jeeny: “I used to hate my nose,” she said finally. “When I was sixteen, I begged my mom to let me get surgery. She refused. She said, ‘This face has your grandmother’s courage in it.’ I didn’t understand then. But now… I do.”

Jack: (softly) “You think that kind of pride is enough to silence the noise?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s enough to drown it out sometimes. And maybe that’s all we can do — turn the volume down on the lies until we start hearing ourselves again.”

Host: Jack’s hand ran through his hair, leaving a streak of charcoal on his temple. His voice was quieter now, tinged with something between skepticism and longing.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. But I’ve seen too many people destroyed by what they see in the mirror. You can’t fight that kind of conditioning with poetry.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we need more poetry.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You’d start a revolution with words?”

Jeeny: “With words, and scars, and laughter. With everything real that makes us human. The beauty industry doesn’t fear perfection — it fears self-acceptance. Because if people stopped trying to fix themselves, they’d start fixing the world.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, trembling like brushstrokes on wet canvas. Jack stepped closer to the painting — the too-perfect face — and stared at it for a long moment. Then, without warning, he dipped his fingers into a jar of red paint and smeared a bold streak across it, tearing through symmetry.

Jeeny didn’t flinch. She only watched.

Jack: (murmuring) “Maybe imperfection looks better in color.”

Jeeny: (softly) “It always has.”

Host: The rain outside softened to a whisper, as though the sky itself were catching its breath. Jeeny walked to another canvas — an unfinished portrait of a child — and began adding strokes of yellow, imperfect but radiant.

Jack: “You ever wonder why it’s so hard for people to believe they’re enough?”

Jeeny: “Because the world makes too much money convincing them they’re not.”

Jack: “So what do we do?”

Jeeny: (turning toward him) “We remind them. Every day. Through art, through words, through the way we live. Pride isn’t arrogance, Jack. It’s remembering that you don’t have to shrink to be beautiful.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly. Outside, the rain began to clear, the clouds thinning to reveal a pale wash of moonlight. The studio glowed — imperfect, cluttered, alive.

Jack stood beside Jeeny, looking at the painting — two faces, flawed and vivid, human in every way. He picked up a brush, hesitated, then added one crooked line across the canvas.

Jack: (quietly) “You’re right. The world doesn’t need prettier people. It needs people who can stand their own reflection.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And the courage to see beauty where no one told them it exists.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely. The city lights reflected on the wet streets, glowing like veins of gold running through darkness.

Inside the studio, the two of them stood before the canvas — the colors raw, uneven, alive.

It wasn’t perfect.

And that, finally, was the point.