For real change, we need feminine energy in the management of the

Host: The evening light lingered like a secret, spilling through the wide windows of a quiet café by the sea. The world outside was bathed in rose-gold twilight, waves lapping against the rocks in a rhythm as old as time. Inside, the air smelled faintly of coffee and salt, the low murmur of the ocean mixing with the soft hum of jazz from a distant speaker.

At a corner table, Jack sat, a notebook open but untouched, the ink in his pen drying as he stared out toward the horizon — where the sun dissolved into water. Across from him sat Jeeny, a scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, her eyes alight with that particular kind of calm strength that seemed born of quiet conviction.

They sat there as the sky turned to amber and blue, two silhouettes suspended between sea and thought.

Jeeny: “Isabel Allende once said, ‘For real change, we need feminine energy in the management of the world. We need a critical number of women in positions of power, and we need to nurture the feminine energy in men.’”

Jack: “Feminine energy.” He scoffed lightly. “Another slogan from the self-help aisle?”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes narrowed slightly, but her tone stayed soft, like silk hiding steel.

Jeeny: “No. A philosophy — one we’ve ignored for centuries. Look around, Jack. The world is exhausted from too much aggression, too much conquest. The masculine has built; now the feminine must heal.”

Jack: “And what exactly does that mean? Let women run everything and hope for mercy?”

Jeeny: “No. It means balance. Compassion beside ambition. Empathy beside logic. We’ve spent millennia worshiping control — maybe it’s time we honored connection.”

Jack: “Sounds poetic. But history isn’t rewritten with poetry. It’s rewritten with power. And power doesn’t yield to softness.”

Jeeny: “Then you mistake softness for weakness. They’re not the same.”

Host: The waves crashed a little harder against the shore, as if punctuating her point. The sunlight caught the glass on the table, scattering fragments of gold between them.

Jack: “You think the world needs more empathy to solve things like war, poverty, corruption?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because without empathy, all solutions rot. You can’t build peace with the same tools that built violence.”

Jack: “That’s idealistic.”

Jeeny: “It’s human. Isabel Allende wasn’t calling for utopia. She was calling for a shift — for balance. The masculine knows how to fight, but the feminine knows how to forgive. The masculine conquers; the feminine nurtures. The masculine builds systems; the feminine restores souls.”

Jack: “So you’d have us all meditate our way out of tyranny?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I’d have us evolve our way out of it.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his jaw tense, eyes clouded. The wind picked up, stirring napkins and salt air through the café’s open window.

Jack: “You really believe that gender energy can change the world? Sounds spiritual, not structural.”

Jeeny: “Spiritual is structural. Everything begins in the unseen. You think policies change nations? No — it’s hearts that do. The world mirrors our consciousness. Right now, it’s mirroring imbalance.”

Jack: “You sound like the ocean — beautiful, endless, and impossible to argue with.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because the ocean is feminine. Powerful without needing permission.”

Host: A soft laugh escaped Jack, genuine and weary. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his skepticism unraveling under the warmth of her conviction.

Jack: “You always make philosophy sound like common sense.”

Jeeny: “That’s because truth usually is. We’ve just been trained to distrust it unless it comes dressed in armor.”

Jack: “Armor works.”

Jeeny: “For survival, yes. But not for creation.”

Host: A pause. Outside, the horizon turned to liquid fire — the last light of day trembling before surrender.

Jeeny: “Look at the patterns, Jack. The climate, politics, economies, even the way people love — everything’s reaching a breaking point. It’s not chaos. It’s contraction — the final resistance before transformation.”

Jack: “And the transformation is… feminine?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. The masculine built the walls; the feminine must open the doors.”

Jack: “You make it sound like men are the problem.”

Jeeny: “No. Imbalance is the problem. The neglect of tenderness. The exile of emotion. The shame around vulnerability. That’s what poisons both men and women.”

Jack: “So when Allende says we need feminine energy in men, you think she means—”

Jeeny: “—that men should remember they’re human before they’re strong.”

Host: Jack stared at her for a long moment, the air between them humming with something deeper than debate — something that felt like truth finding its place.

Jack: “You know, I grew up thinking emotion was the enemy of reason. That to be strong was to stay silent.”

Jeeny: “And what did silence ever build?”

Jack: “A distance. Between me and everything I cared about.”

Jeeny: “That’s what the world’s done too. It’s armored itself in logic and power and forgotten the art of gentleness. But gentleness — real gentleness — that’s what moves mountains.”

Host: The ocean’s rhythm filled the quiet, steady as breath. The light dimmed, turning their faces into silhouettes, two halves of one philosophy — the skeptical and the sacred, the realist and the believer.

Jack: “So you think a world run with feminine energy would be… what? Softer?”

Jeeny: “No. Wiser. The feminine doesn’t erase strength; it redefines it. It’s not about control — it’s about coherence.”

Jack: “And men fit where in that vision?”

Jeeny: “At the table. Equal. Not leading or following — collaborating. Because until both energies sit together, we’ll keep repeating history.”

Host: The wind calmed, and for a moment, the only sound was the sea’s long exhale, like the planet itself agreeing.

Jack: “You make it sound like we’re capable of harmony.”

Jeeny: “We are. But harmony isn’t lack of conflict — it’s respect between notes.”

Jack: “You really believe we can unlearn thousands of years of domination?”

Jeeny: “I don’t believe — I know. Every time a woman leads with compassion instead of conquest, every time a man chooses empathy over ego, the world tilts a little closer to balance.”

Host: The sky deepened to indigo, stars flickering awake. Jack looked up, exhaled, and something in his expression shifted — the faintest hint of surrender, or maybe recognition.

Jack: “You make it sound possible.”

Jeeny: “It’s already happening. We’re just too used to calling it rebellion instead of healing.”

Host: The café lights dimmed, the last patrons gone. Outside, the sea reflected the stars, vast and alive.

Jack: “So what do we do now, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “We nurture. In our homes, our work, our choices. We choose care over conquest. Presence over power. It’s small — until it isn’t.”

Jack: “And when the world mocks that?”

Jeeny: “Then we keep nurturing anyway. That’s how revolutions begin — not with noise, but with persistence.”

Host: She stood, her shadow stretching long across the floor. Jack watched her, his skepticism finally quiet.

Jeeny: “Remember this, Jack — strength built the world, but only love will save it.”

Host: Outside, the waves rolled against the rocks, timeless and patient. The sea — that eternal mother — whispered against the shore, as if blessing their silence.

And there, in the quiet hum of the evening, it became clear:
that real change is not an uprising, but an unfolding —
a remembering that every storm begins
with the tide returning home.

Fade out.