Change is not made without inconvenience, even from worse to

Host: The train station was caught between rush hour and rainfall — a strange limbo of motion and stillness. The floors gleamed with wet reflections; announcements echoed over the loudspeakers, blurred by static. Commuters moved like waves, all urgency and umbrellas. And there, at the edge of it all, by the flickering departure board, sat Jack and Jeeny — two travelers without tickets, their bags untouched, their conversation heavier than the weather.

On the bench between them, Jeeny’s notebook lay open, and across the top page she’d written a single line in neat, deliberate ink:
“Change is not made without inconvenience, even from worse to better.” — Richard Hooker

Jeeny: (watching the trains) “It’s funny. Everyone talks about change like it’s a sunrise — warm, bright, inevitable. But Hooker... he sounds like someone who’s seen the clouds stay.”

Host: Her voice was thoughtful, quiet enough that it nearly drowned under the station’s hum, but Jack heard every syllable.

Jack: “Yeah. He wasn’t romantic about it. He knew that even progress limps for a while.”

Jeeny: “Limping toward better... I like that. It’s honest.”

Jack: (smirking) “Honesty’s uncomfortable. That’s kind of the point.”

Host: A train screeched in the distance, the metallic howl underscoring the truth of his words.

Jeeny: “You ever notice that people only like change when they can control it?”

Jack: “Of course. Nobody wants transformation. They want confirmation — that their choices were right.”

Jeeny: (half-smiling) “You sound like a philosopher who’s been through a few bad renovations.”

Jack: (laughs) “You could say that. The last time I tried to ‘change for the better,’ I ended up losing half the people who said they’d support me.”

Jeeny: “Because you stopped being predictable.”

Jack: “Exactly. People want you to grow, as long as you don’t outgrow them.”

Host: Jeeny turned toward him, studying his expression — that mix of fatigue and conviction that comes from someone who’s fought too many invisible battles.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Hooker was trying to remind us that improvement always comes with friction. Like... healing hurts before it helps.”

Jack: “Yeah. Like breaking in new shoes. Or leaving a toxic job. Or ending a love that’s killing you slowly.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Even freedom has blisters.”

Host: The lights above flickered once — that brief, cinematic moment where everything pauses before resuming.

Jack: “What I like about that quote is that it’s not dramatic. He’s not talking about revolution or reinvention. Just... the realism of movement. That even going from bad to good scrapes something loose.”

Jeeny: “Because comfort doesn’t die quietly.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the glass like a metronome. The world seemed to move slower under its rhythm.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? We want change to make us feel better, but it usually makes us feel worse first.”

Jack: “That’s the detox part.”

Jeeny: “The withdrawal from old habits.”

Jack: “From old selves.”

Host: He said it without looking at her — eyes fixed on the people crossing the platform, each face carrying its own small version of that truth.

Jeeny: “You know, my mother used to say that when you rearrange a room, you always stub your toe before you learn where everything’s been moved.”

Jack: “That’s brilliant.”

Jeeny: “It’s inevitable discomfort. The body relearns space. The soul relearns order.”

Jack: “And the world keeps testing your commitment.”

Host: A soft announcement crackled through the loudspeaker — a train delayed. A hundred sighs rose around them like wind.

Jeeny: “Even change that’s supposed to be good — a new job, a new city, even marriage — it throws you off balance. People call it excitement, but underneath, it’s fear.”

Jack: “The body knows before the mind admits it. Fear’s the tax of transformation.”

Jeeny: “And we still chase it.”

Jack: “Because stagnation is just a slower kind of death.”

Host: Jeeny closed her notebook, resting her hand on it as if sealing the weight of the words inside.

Jeeny: “You think people ever truly get comfortable with change?”

Jack: “No. But they can get comfortable with discomfort.”

Jeeny: “Like making peace with turbulence mid-flight.”

Jack: “Exactly. You stop wishing for smooth air and start trusting the pilot.”

Host: Her eyes softened at that.

Jeeny: “And who’s the pilot?”

Jack: “Faith. Or stubbornness. Sometimes they’re the same thing.”

Host: The rain slowed, tapering into a gentle patter. Through the station windows, the city shimmered in half-light — wet and restless, yet somehow alive again.

Jeeny: “You know what I think is beautiful about Hooker’s line?”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: “It makes peace with imperfection. He doesn’t say change fixes everything — he says even good change makes a mess first. It’s... merciful. It forgives the in-between.”

Jack: “The in-between — that’s where most of life happens.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. Between who we were and who we’re trying to become.”

Jack: “Between worse and better.”

Host: The clock above them ticked, steady and indifferent. For a moment, neither of them spoke. They just sat there — two souls waiting for their next departure, learning to be still in the motion.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? This station feels like the quote itself — loud, confusing, full of delays, but still heading somewhere.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s what change really is — waiting rooms for better versions of ourselves.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And everyone’s impatient for their train.”

Host: The loudspeaker called out a new platform. The crowd began to move, boots squeaking, umbrellas dripping. Jack stood, lifting his bag.

Jack: “You think Hooker ever imagined his words being talked about in a train station centuries later?”

Jeeny: “Probably not. But I think he’d like it. He knew the world would always be in transit.”

Host: She rose too, falling into step beside him.

Jeeny: “Change will always be inconvenient.”

Jack: “But inconvenience is the proof it’s happening.”

Jeeny: “And happening means we’re still alive.”

Host: The doors opened with a hiss. Warm air and the smell of rain met them as they stepped forward — neither rushing nor hesitating.

And as they disappeared into the tide of travelers, Richard Hooker’s words lingered like the low hum of the departing train —

a reminder that progress is not painless,
that even from worse to better, something must be shed,
and that the soul — like a body in motion —
must ache a little
before it learns
how to arrive.