Don't let your ego get too close to your position, so that if

Host: The conference room was nearly empty, the last streaks of sunlight dying on the glass walls that overlooked the city. The skyline shimmered in hues of fading amber and grey, while inside, the low hum of air conditioning filled the silence left after a long day of decisions, defenses, and small defeats.

Jack sat alone at the end of the table, his tie loosened, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the glowing presentation screen that now displayed nothing but a company logo — a hollow victory symbol. Jeeny entered quietly, holding two paper cups of coffee. She placed one in front of him without a word, then leaned against the opposite wall, arms folded, watching him.

Host: The air was thick with tension, the kind that comes after a meeting where words had been used like bullets, and every idea had walked into crossfire.

Jeeny: “You looked like a man going to war in there,” she said softly.

Jack: “I did,” he muttered, not looking up. “And I lost.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said. “Your proposal lost.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Host: She watched him — the clenched jaw, the muscles in his hand flexing around the coffee cup. The kind of anger that wasn’t about others, but about pride cut open.

Jeeny: “Colin Powell once said something about that,” she said, her voice calm but steady. “‘Don’t let your ego get too close to your position, so that if your position gets shot down, your ego doesn’t go with it.’”

Jack: “Yeah, well, Powell never pitched a six-month project only to have it torn apart in ten minutes by a boardroom of people who didn’t even read the damn summary.”

Jeeny: “He led soldiers into battles that didn’t go his way either,” she said gently. “And still didn’t mistake failure for identity.”

Host: The light dimmed further. Outside, the city lights flickered awake — small, deliberate constellations against the glass. Jack finally looked up, his grey eyes sharp but tired.

Jack: “You ever notice,” he said, “how people always tell you not to take things personally right after they’ve made it personal?”

Jeeny: She smiled faintly, but her gaze didn’t waver. “Because we confuse criticism with rejection. But they’re not the same thing.”

Jack: “Tell that to my boss,” he said dryly. “He didn’t shoot down an idea — he shot me. That’s how it felt.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re still standing,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “Maybe what he shot was the part of you that couldn’t separate pride from purpose.”

Host: The words lingered in the air like a slow strike — not cruel, but true. Jack leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, breathing out the day in a long, quiet sigh.

Jack: “You make it sound like ego’s the enemy.”

Jeeny: “Not the enemy,” she said softly. “Just a dangerous ally. It’ll fight for you, but it’ll also die for the wrong things.”

Jack: “Ego’s what makes people care. Without it, you’d never take risks. You’d never defend your ideas.”

Jeeny: “Defending isn’t the problem. Confusing yourself with your idea is.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked louder in the silence that followed, the sound carving time into sharp, reflective moments. Jack stared out the window, where the city stretched below — indifferent, alive, and utterly unconcerned with human wounds.

Jack: “You think I’m too attached to what I build?”

Jeeny: “I think you love it too much to see when it stops working.”

Jack: “So what? I’m supposed to detach from everything? Treat my work like a machine?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, walking closer, her voice lowering to a near whisper. “Just remember you’re more than the machine.”

Host: The rain began suddenly, soft at first, then steady — streaking the windows in silver lines. Jack stood, his reflection merging with the blurred lights outside. He looked like a man divided between who he was and what he did.

Jack: “You make it sound easy — separating ego from effort.”

Jeeny: “It’s not,” she said. “It’s like peeling skin from skin. But it’s the only way to survive your own ambition.”

Host: He turned to her, his face softened by the flickering light.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I wanted to be the best at everything — grades, sports, debate. My dad used to say, ‘If you’re not winning, you’re wasting time.’ I guess I never unlearned that.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe this is your chance to.”

Jack: “You think failure teaches humility?”

Jeeny: “No. Only detachment does. Failure just gives you the opportunity.”

Host: Her words landed quietly, without drama — just the steady pulse of truth.

Jack: “You talk like detachment is some kind of freedom.”

Jeeny: “It is. Imagine if your worth wasn’t tied to being right. Imagine if being wrong didn’t destroy you — just redirected you.”

Host: He paused, the thought hanging between them like something fragile and new.

Jack: “So what — I should stop fighting for my ideas?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said firmly. “Fight harder. But fight knowing you’re not what you’re fighting for.”

Jack: “That sounds paradoxical.”

Jeeny: “So is wisdom.”

Host: The rain softened again, turning to a mist that caught the city’s neon reflections. A subtle warmth filled the room — not comfort, but release.

Jack: “You know,” he said after a moment, “Powell must’ve seen a lot of men confuse orders with identity. Maybe that’s why he said it. In the army, being wrong can kill people.”

Jeeny: “And in life, it kills the self — piece by piece.”

Jack: “So how do you keep your ego out of the way?”

Jeeny: “By remembering that being right isn’t the goal — being better is.”

Host: Jack’s expression shifted, the first hint of something like peace crossing his features. He took a slow sip of his coffee, now cold, and smiled faintly.

Jack: “You always make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “That’s because I’m not the one bleeding pride,” she said with a teasing grin.

Host: They both laughed — softly, sincerely. The kind of laughter that feels like a truce.

Jack: “Alright,” he said. “Maybe next time, I’ll let my idea die without the funeral.”

Jeeny: “Good. Then you can use the energy to build the next one.”

Host: The clock ticked again. The rain stopped. The room settled into that quiet that follows both defeat and renewal — the calm of understanding that nothing true is ever lost, only transformed.

Jack: “You know,” he said finally, “maybe ego’s not the problem. Maybe it’s just scared.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said softly. “It’s the child in us, terrified of being unseen. You just have to teach it that losing doesn’t mean disappearing.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, staring once more at the city lights. His reflection — weary but lighter — met his eyes in the glass.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll start there. With teaching it.”

Jeeny: “Good,” she said. “Start small. Start kind.”

Host: The lamps hummed softly as they gathered their things. As they stepped out into the corridor, the world outside gleamed — washed clean by the rain.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack,” she said as they walked toward the elevator, “sometimes getting shot down isn’t the end of the mission. It’s just gravity reminding you where the ground is.”

Host: Jack smiled, pressing the elevator button. “And maybe the ground’s not such a bad place to rebuild from.”

Host: The doors closed behind them with a soft chime. The rain had stopped, the city pulsing beyond the glass like a living heart.

And somewhere between ego and humility, pride and purpose, a new truth began to form — that strength isn’t never falling, but knowing which parts of yourself should rise when everything else has been shot down.