Growth is painful. Change is painful. But, nothing is as painful

Host: The train station was dim and hollow in the evening light — a cathedral of steel and echo. The arrival board flickered, its digital letters trembling like they too were uncertain of direction. Outside, the sky hung low and orange, the kind of dusk that hums with the ache of leaving.

A cold wind drifted through the open platform, carrying the smell of iron, rain, and departure. Jack stood near the edge, a small duffel bag at his feet, watching the last car of a departing train vanish into the horizon — its rhythmic clatter fading like a heart that had stopped trying to explain itself.

A few steps behind him, Jeeny sat on a bench, her suitcase beside her, a notebook open on her lap. She was writing, then paused, and looked up at him — at the man who’d been trying for months to decide whether to stay or to move on.

On the page before her, she’d written a line — simple but sharp, like a truth that leaves a mark:
"Growth is painful. Change is painful. But nothing is as painful as staying stuck where you do not belong." — N. R. Narayana Murthy.

Jeeny: (reading it aloud) “It’s strange, isn’t it? How we talk about pain as if it’s optional. As if staying still doesn’t hurt just as much.”

Jack: (turning slightly) “Sometimes standing still is all people can afford.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But there’s a cost either way. You pay for change in fear. You pay for stagnation in decay.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You sound like a therapist or a prophet. Or both.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone who’s been stuck long enough to recognize the view.”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. It’s familiar, isn’t it? The comfort that slowly becomes a coffin.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You build walls to feel safe, and one day you realize they’ve turned into a cage.”

Host: A train horn wailed in the distance — low, mournful, alive. The sound filled the empty air like a sermon to motion. The station lights flickered on, bathing the platform in a cold, sterile glow. Jack’s face looked older under it, lined with the wear of decisions postponed too long.

Jack: “You ever notice how people glorify change? Like it’s some romantic adventure. Nobody talks about the part where it feels like dying.”

Jeeny: “That’s because growth is a kind of death. The death of who you were, of what was once enough.”

Jack: “So you’re saying every version of us has an expiration date.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And the pain isn’t in growing — it’s in clinging to what’s already rotting.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s harsh.”

Jeeny: “It’s true.”

Host: The wind picked up, scattering discarded tickets and paper cups across the tracks. Jeeny watched them tumble — free, aimless, light.

Jeeny: “When I read Murthy’s quote, I thought of all the people who confuse belonging with comfort. They stay in jobs, relationships, cities — not because they fit, but because they’re afraid to find out where they don’t.”

Jack: “Yeah. The lie of belonging. You stay because it’s what you know. Even when what you know is killing you slowly.”

Jeeny: “It’s easier to tolerate slow pain than face fast change.”

Jack: (looking away) “You make it sound like I’ve been doing exactly that.”

Jeeny: “You have.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Yeah. I know.”

Host: The silence stretched — heavy but honest. Somewhere nearby, a vending machine hummed like an unfeeling witness. The station clock ticked with bureaucratic indifference.

Jeeny: “What are you afraid of, Jack?”

Jack: (smiling wryly) “The usual. Starting over. Losing everything. Realizing I’ve been holding on to something that never held me back — it just held me down.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fear. That’s recognition.”

Jack: “Feels the same.”

Jeeny: “No. Fear paralyzes you. Recognition moves you — painfully, yes, but forward.”

Jack: (sighing) “And you think forward is always the right direction?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the only one that’s alive.”

Host: A new train rolled in, its brakes screeching like the sound of inevitability. The doors opened with a hiss — releasing a warm gust of air that smelled faintly of oil and movement. A few passengers stepped off, others on. Life rotated.

Jack: “You know, I used to think pain was proof I was doing something wrong.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think it’s just proof that something’s changing — whether I like it or not.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Pain’s the alarm clock of growth. You don’t get to wake up without it.”

Jack: “You make suffering sound noble.”

Jeeny: “Not noble. Necessary. The body aches when the bones stretch. The soul does, too.”

Jack: “So what if you stretch too far and something breaks?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you’ll know it wasn’t meant to stay in one shape forever.”

Host: The PA system crackled, announcing departures in a monotone voice — distant cities, future selves. Jack’s gaze followed the names scrolling across the board like a test he hadn’t studied for.

Jeeny: “You’ve been here a long time, Jack. You talk about leaving, but you never buy the ticket.”

Jack: “Because the platform feels safe.”

Jeeny: “It only feels safe because it doesn’t demand a choice.”

Jack: “And stepping onto that train does?”

Jeeny: “Yes. It demands you choose life over comfort.”

Jack: (quietly) “And what if life doesn’t want me back?”

Jeeny: “Then you build a new one that does.”

Host: The rain began — soft at first, then steady, filling the silence between them. The drops tapped on the metal roof like tiny insistences, urging motion. Jeeny stood, closing her notebook, her voice quiet but sure.

Jeeny: “You know, Murthy’s not just talking about career or ambition. He’s talking about truth. Staying where you don’t belong — in work, in love, in thought — it eats you alive one quiet day at a time.”

Jack: “So what do you do?”

Jeeny: “You hurt now, so you don’t decay later.”

Jack: “That’s your wisdom?”

Jeeny: “That’s life.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “And you’re leaving.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But not because I want to escape — because I want to arrive.”

Host: The train doors chimed, warning of closing. The sound was sharp, final. Jack looked at her — really looked — and for the first time, she saw no resistance in his eyes, only grief disguised as readiness.

Jack: “You’re right. Growth hurts. Change hurts. But staying… staying’s been killing me.”

Jeeny: “Then go, Jack.”

Jack: (pausing) “And you?”

Jeeny: “I’ll catch the next one. Every journey needs a different beginning.”

Jack: (nodding) “Maybe we’ll meet at the next station.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe that’s the beauty of it — that we don’t have to.”

Host: The doors closed, and the train began to move. Jack stood by the window, his reflection merging with the rain-smeared night outside. Jeeny watched until the lights faded into distance.

The platform was empty again — except for the echo of motion, the whisper of transformation.

She opened her notebook once more and wrote beneath Murthy’s quote:

"Pain is the sound of becoming."

Then she closed it gently, smiled through her tears, and whispered to the quiet platform — as if speaking to every soul that ever stayed too long where they didn’t belong:

“Go. Hurt if you must. But go.”

Host: Outside, the rain cleared. The station lights shimmered on the wet rails — twin paths stretching into the horizon, gleaming like veins of possibility.

And in that moment — in the hush after leaving and before arrival — the truth of Murthy’s words became more than wisdom.

It became the pulse of every living thing:

that growth breaks,
change burns,
but the stillness of not belonging
is the slowest kind of death.

And sometimes, the only way to live again
is to board the train
that scares you most.