I believe that the therapist's function should be to help people

Host: The rain had stopped just moments ago, leaving the city street bathed in a soft, silver mist. Streetlights glowed like weary eyes, their reflections trembling in the puddles scattered across the sidewalk. Inside the small therapy office above an old bookstore, the air was still—too still. The faint smell of coffee, paper, and something ancient, like forgotten confessions, lingered in the room.

Jack sat by the window, one arm draped over the back of the chair, eyes lost in the neon blur outside. Jeeny sat opposite him, her hands wrapped around a chipped mug, her breath fogging the porcelain with every soft exhale.

Host: The evening light slid down the walls, brushing against their faces — his hardened, hers tender, both shadowed by the weight of their thoughts.

Jeeny: “Rollo May once said — ‘I believe that the therapist’s function should be to help people become free to be aware of and to experience their possibilities.’”
(she pauses, tracing her finger around the rim of her cup)
“Don’t you think that’s what we all need, Jack? Someone who helps us see what we might be, not what we’ve been forced to become.”

Jack: (smirking slightly) “That sounds poetic, Jeeny. But people don’t need a therapist to ‘free’ them. They need discipline, not daydreams. The world doesn’t wait for anyone to discover their possibilities — it crushes those who hesitate.”

Host: A low rumble of thunder echoed far away, as if the sky itself had decided to join their argument.

Jeeny: “You talk like freedom is a luxury. But it’s the core of being alive. Look at those who were told they couldn’t — women denied education, artists under censorship, the poor taught they were worthless. What changed them wasn’t punishment or control, Jack. It was awareness. Someone showed them they had possibilities — and that awareness set them free.”

Jack: “And how many of them ended up broken, Jeeny? Idealism doesn’t pay rent. You talk about awareness as if it’s a cure, but sometimes awareness is a curse. When people start ‘seeing their possibilities,’ they also see their limitations. They see how small their lives really are. That kind of awakening can destroy a man.”

Host: The rain began again, this time softly, a thin veil against the glass. Jeeny’s eyes flickered with something like sadness, but also with quiet resolve.

Jeeny: “Maybe destruction is part of becoming real. You can’t rebuild yourself without breaking first. That’s what therapy is — not comfort, but confrontation. A therapist doesn’t give you dreams, Jack. They help you face your fears, your patterns, your pain — until you can choose again.”

Jack: “Choose? Most people don’t want to choose. They want certainty. That’s why they pay someone to tell them what’s wrong with them. Therapy has become a market for manufactured meaning. A man walks in with confusion and leaves with a label. Depression. Anxiety. Trauma. Easy words to cage the chaos.”

Host: The lamp light flickered. A gust of wind brushed through the open window, carrying the faint scent of wet earth and street dust. The city below was alive — horns, footsteps, laughter — a thousand small stories unraveling in the night.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong about that. Labels can be cages, yes, but they can also be keys. When you name your pain, it stops being your master. It becomes something you can hold, look at, and eventually, release.”

Jack: “You sound like a therapist yourself.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe because I’ve been on both sides of that chair.”

Host: A silence stretched between them — long, almost sacred. The hum of the streetlights filled the space where words hesitated.

Jack turned his gaze toward her, his eyes sharp, yet uncertain.

Jack: “So what, Jeeny? You think freedom comes from awareness? From feeling things more deeply? Isn’t that the very thing people run from? The moment they begin to feel, they drown.”

Jeeny: “And yet, that’s where life begins — in the drowning. In facing what’s unbearable until you find that you can breathe again. Freedom isn’t about escaping pain. It’s about being able to experience it fully — and still move forward.”

Host: Her voice trembled not from weakness, but from something fierce, alive. The room seemed smaller now, like the walls themselves were leaning closer to listen.

Jack: “You think awareness can save humanity? Look at the twentieth century — full of psychology, philosophy, self-awareness, and yet the bloodiest in history. Awareness didn’t save anyone.”

Jeeny: “You mistake knowledge for awareness. Hitler was knowledgeable; Rollo May was aware. There’s a difference. Awareness isn’t just knowing — it’s feeling responsibly. It’s the kind of seeing that transforms, not manipulates.”

Host: Jack looked down, his hands tense, the veins drawn tight against his skin. The rain beat harder now, rhythmic, relentless — like an argument from the heavens.

Jack: “Maybe. But awareness can’t feed the hungry. It can’t heal the dying. It’s a privilege for those who have time to sit and think.”

Jeeny: “Then tell that to Viktor Frankl, who found meaning in a concentration camp. He wrote ‘Man’s Search for Meaning’ surrounded by death, starvation, and despair. Awareness was the only freedom he had left — the freedom to choose his attitude. And that freedom saved him.”

Host: The words hit Jack like distant thunder — slow, resonant, impossible to ignore. He leaned back, his breath shallow, the edge of sarcasm fading from his voice.

Jack: “You really believe everyone can reach that level of awareness? Even the broken ones?”

Jeeny: “Especially the broken ones. They’re the ones who’ve seen the edges of existence. They know what it means to fight for possibility.”

Host: The clock ticked quietly. Outside, the rain softened again, tapering into mist. The light from the street painted their faces in alternating shadows and glow.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe awareness is freedom. But it’s also terrifying. Once you see your possibilities, you can’t unsee them. You either chase them and risk everything — or spend your life haunted by what could have been.”

Jeeny: “That’s the cost of being human, Jack. To be aware is to risk heartbreak. But to live unaware is to never really exist at all.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He turned toward the window, watching the city lights ripple through the rain. His reflection stared back at him — older, wearier, but somehow… more real.

Jack: “So maybe the therapist isn’t there to fix us, but to break us open. To make us see that there’s still something left inside worth rebuilding.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. They don’t give us freedom — they remind us that it’s ours to claim.”

Host: A faint smile appeared at the corner of Jack’s mouth — tired, but sincere. Jeeny mirrored it, her eyes softening. The room grew quiet, filled only with the delicate sound of raindrops fading on glass.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How awareness hurts first — then heals.”

Jeeny: “Like any truth worth knowing.”

Host: The lamp flickered one last time, then steadied. Outside, the clouds began to part, revealing a thin sliver of moonlight. It fell across their faces, two souls caught between doubt and discovery.

Host: And in that fragile moment, neither spoke — for both understood that freedom was not something to be given, but something to be realized. The kind of freedom that begins not with escape, but with awareness — the courage to look inward and finally see the boundless possibilities waiting to be lived.