I try not to set myself up as different or as a celebrity or

Host: The morning light filtered through the sheer curtains of a small apartment, painting the walls with soft gold and dust motes that danced like drifting thoughts. Outside, the city was already awake — horns, voices, sirens blending into that constant hum that sounded like life refusing to stop.

Inside, Jack sat at the kitchen table, still in his shirt from last night, a cup of cold coffee before him. His hair was tousled, his eyes ringed with fatigue — the kind that comes from wrestling with thoughts rather than sleep.

Across from him, Jeeny stood barefoot, her hair loosely tied, a half-smile lingering as she tried to wipe cat fur off her sweater. A tabby purred on the counter, unbothered by the chaos of dishes, unopened mail, and unfinished dreams scattered across the room.

It was a Monday that looked exactly like life — imperfect, loud, beautifully ordinary.

Jeeny: “Iyanla Vanzant once said, ‘I try not to set myself up as different or as a celebrity or special. I have a husband that can get on my nerves. I have kids that test my patience. I've got a cat I can't keep off the sofa. It's real. On a bad day, I'm reading "Acts of Faith."’”

Jack: (grinning faintly) “Finally, a philosopher who sounds like a human being.”

Host: The coffee maker hissed and clicked, the faint smell of burnt grounds filling the air — not unpleasant, just real.

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what I love about her. No pretense. Just honesty — life as it is, not as it’s curated.”

Jack: “Honesty’s overrated. People say they want the truth, but they only want the kind that flatters their illusions. Even this—” (gestures around the messy kitchen) “—we call it authenticity, but it’s chaos. We just learn to romanticize it.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s not romantic — it’s grounding. Iyanla’s reminding us that spirituality doesn’t live in temples or bestsellers — it lives between dirty dishes and arguments about the thermostat.”

Jack: (smirks) “Sounds like divine suffering.”

Jeeny: “No — divine normalcy. The reminder that being human is holy enough.”

Host: The cat leaped down from the counter, its tail brushing against Jack’s coffee cup, spilling a few drops onto the table. He cursed under his breath, and Jeeny laughed — the kind of laugh that disarms anger before it takes root.

Jack: “See? That’s it. The world glorifies enlightenment but forgets to mention that enlightenment still has to clean up cat hair.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s her whole point — the illusion of perfection is the real prison. We chase transcendence and forget to live.”

Host: A truck passed outside, its rumble shaking the windowpanes. The light flickered across the table, and for a moment, time slowed — two souls caught between the mundane and the mystical.

Jack: “But we need the illusion, don’t we? The idea that we’re meant for more — that our lives have grandeur. Otherwise, what’s the point? We’re just surviving the repetition.”

Jeeny: “That’s where you’re wrong. The grandeur is in the repetition. The sacred is hiding in the routine. Think about it — the same sunrise, every day, and yet it never fails to move us. Isn’t that grace disguised as monotony?”

Jack: (sighing) “You make the ordinary sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Look at Iyanla — she built her wisdom out of broken marriages, lost faith, and a noisy house. She’s saying enlightenment isn’t about escaping the mess; it’s about staying present within it.”

Host: Jack’s hand drifted toward the cat, absently stroking its fur, though his eyes were elsewhere — focused on something intangible, an idea unraveling quietly in his mind.

Jack: “You think being ordinary can be enough?”

Jeeny: “I think being ordinary is the hardest thing to accept. Everyone wants to be special. Few know how to be whole.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly — steady, unbothered, relentless.

Jack: “But doesn’t that kill ambition? If everyone just ‘embraced the ordinary,’ nothing great would ever happen.”

Jeeny: “Ambition isn’t the enemy of humility. It’s the illusion that greatness has to be loud that ruins us. The most extraordinary acts are often invisible — a mother forgiving her child, a person choosing kindness over ego, a man daring to keep trying after failure. That’s greatness too.”

Jack: “Then why do we only celebrate the ones who make noise?”

Jeeny: “Because silence doesn’t sell.”

Host: A quiet moment followed — the kind that stretches and softens like light at dawn. Outside, the sun began to pierce the clouds, spilling across the buildings like gold melting over stone.

Jack: (after a pause) “I used to think I’d do something big — something that mattered. Change things. Make people remember me. But lately… I can’t even remember why that mattered.”

Jeeny: “Because maybe you’ve started to see that legacy isn’t about being remembered — it’s about being real.”

Host: Her words hung between them, fragile yet unbreakable. Jack looked at her, and for the first time that morning, his expression softened.

Jack: “So you’re saying the divine might actually be sitting on my kitchen counter right now?”

Jeeny: “If the divine has fur and knocks over coffee cups, yes.”

Host: They both laughed — not the polite kind, but the deep, unguarded laughter that loosens the knots of the soul.

Jack: “I suppose even prophets need napkins.”

Jeeny: “Especially prophets.”

Host: The cat, unimpressed, jumped back onto the sofa it wasn’t supposed to touch. Jeeny sighed, half-exasperated, half-tender. Jack shook his head, smiling in defeat.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what she means — life keeps testing your patience until you stop pretending it shouldn’t.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Peace isn’t the absence of irritation; it’s the art of laughing through it.”

Host: The sunlight finally filled the room completely, brushing over the mess, the cracks, the ordinary beauty of a life still in progress.

Jack: (quietly) “So maybe I don’t need to be special. Maybe I just need to be awake.”

Jeeny: “That’s all life ever asks.”

Host: The cat purred louder, as if in agreement. The city roared softly beyond the window, alive and flawed and perfect in its imperfection.

Jack leaned back in his chair, letting the light hit his face, the first genuine peace of the morning crossing his features.

Jeeny poured two fresh cups of coffee, her smile simple, unheroic, human.

And as the camera pulled back, the scene was not grand, nor tragic, nor divine — only real, deeply and irrevocably real.

A man, a woman, a cat, a conversation.

A quiet testament to Iyanla’s truth — that holiness doesn’t always glow.
Sometimes, it sheds hair on the sofa and still manages to heal the heart.