Change is such hard work.

Host: The city was caught between seasons — that strange evening hour when winter hadn’t quite left, but spring hadn’t yet arrived. The sky hung low, heavy, the clouds bruised with the color of undecided rain. A park bench sat under a bare oak, its branches trembling in the wind, the last leaves clinging like memories refusing to let go.

Jack sat on that bench, his hands buried in the pockets of his coat, watching people pass — joggers, couples, faces lit by the cold glow of their phones. His eyes were distant, his jaw tight, the look of a man who’d been standing still too long while the world kept moving.

Jeeny approached, a thermos in her hand, her breath visible, her smile quiet but steady. She sat beside him, the bench creaking, a sound like the beginning of an old song.

Jeeny: “Billy Crystal once said, ‘Change is such hard work.’” She handed him the thermos. “I think he meant more than just comedy.”

Jack: He took it, nodded faintly. “Yeah. The man’s spent his life reinventing himself — actor, writer, husband, father. He’s right. Change isn’t poetic, Jeeny. It’s brutal. It’s slow. It’s the kind of work no one sees.”

Host: The steam from the coffee curled between them, melting into the cold air like a whisper that didn’t know where to go. Jeeny watched Jack’s hands, the way they trembled slightly, the way he avoided her gaze.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that the point? If it were easy, it wouldn’t be real. We talk about change like it’s this inspiring montage — music, progress, transformation — but it’s not. It’s just one tiny decision after another. And most days, it feels like you’re not moving at all.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s been trying.”

Jeeny: “Aren’t we all?” She smiled, faintly. “You know, my therapist once said that real change isn’t about becoming new — it’s about facing the old without running. That’s the hard work.”

Jack: “Therapists love saying that. It sounds nice on paper. But in practice? It’s hell. You try to change, and everything fights you — your habits, your fears, your comfort. It’s like trying to rebuild a house while you’re still living in it.”

Host: The wind picked up, rattling the branches above them. The sky dimmed, the lampposts flickered on, casting halos of amber light over the wet ground. Jack stared at the pavement, voice low, weighted.

Jack: “You ever notice how people always say they want to change the world — but they can’t even change themselves?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because we think change happens in the world. But it starts here.” She tapped her chest, over her heart. “In the small, quiet battles no one ever sees.”

Jack: “And you think that’s enough? One person changing in a world that doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “I think that’s the only kind of change that ever worked. Look at Mandela. Gandhi. Malala. They didn’t start with armies. They started with conviction — and the courage to live differently. That’s the work.”

Host: Jack scoffed, but not with mockery — with the kind of weariness that hides admiration. He sipped the coffee, its bitterness grounding him, reminding him he was still here.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But for most people, it’s just survival. Change isn’t a choice; it’s something life forces on you. A layoff, a breakup, a diagnosis. You either adapt or collapse.”

Jeeny: “And isn’t that what makes it holy? That even when it’s forced, we still try? That we still keep moving, even if it’s just crawling through the dark?”

Jack: “Holy? You think pain is holy?”

Jeeny: “I think effort is. Every time someone chooses to try again, it’s sacred. Because it means they haven’t given up on themselves.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but it hit him like a wave — slow, steady, unavoidable. The silence that followed was thick, filled with the sound of rain starting again, soft drops tapping the bench, the earth, the edges of their words.

Jack: “You know what I hate most about change?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “It doesn’t feel like progress until it’s over. You claw your way through it — the tears, the uncertainty, the grind — and only later do you realize you were transforming the whole time. In the moment, it just feels like loss.”

Jeeny: “Because every change is a little death, Jack. The old you has to make room for someone new. And that’s not easy. But it’s how we grow.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming softly on the hoods of the lamps, running down the paths like veins of silver. Jeeny lifted her face, eyes closed, letting the water touch her skin, a quiet act of defiance — or maybe acceptance.

Jack: “So what if you don’t like who you’re becoming?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep shaping. You keep chiseling until what’s left looks like peace.”

Jack: smirking faintly “You sound like Michelangelo.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m just tired of watching people stop halfway. We start change with passion, but when it gets ugly, we quit. Billy Crystal was right — change is hard work. Not glamorous work. It’s sweaty, lonely, thankless work. But it’s the only kind that matters.”

Host: The streetlight flickered, casting shadows that stretched and shifted, as though even the light itself were learning to change. Jack leaned back, watching the rain, his expression softening into something close to peace.

Jack: “You know, I’ve spent so long trying to get back to who I was. Maybe I should’ve been trying to see who I could become.”

Jeeny: “That’s the turning point, Jack. The moment you stop looking backward and start building forward. That’s where the real work begins.”

Host: The rain eased, leaving behind the faint smell of renewal — wet earth, fresh air, and something unspoken, like forgiveness. The clouds broke, and the first hint of stars appeared, fragile but present, reminding them that even darkness has its gaps.

Jack: quietly “Maybe change isn’t about who we lose or what we leave behind. Maybe it’s just… learning how to keep walking through it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Step by step, choice by choice. That’s all any of us can do.”

Host: The park fell quiet again — the kind of quiet that feels like beginning rather than ending. Jack stood, offering her his hand. She took it, and together they walked, the sound of their footsteps mixing with the soft rain, the night folding around them like a promise.

And as the lamp light glowed on the wet ground, one truth lingered, steady and luminous in the air between them:

Change is hard work — yes.
But it is the only work worth doing.