If there is anything that we wish to change in the child, we

Host: The schoolyard had fallen into quiet after dusk — the kind of quiet that still holds the echo of laughter. The swings swayed faintly in the wind, their metal chains whispering against one another like the residue of joy. The smell of chalk and rain hung in the air, and the last of the orange light lingered on the playground slide.

Inside, through a tall window streaked with evening, Jack and Jeeny sat in a small classroom that had long been emptied of children. The blackboard behind them was still covered with crooked handwriting — words half-erased, sums half-solved.

A faint hum from the radiator filled the space, the sound of warmth keeping ghosts of innocence company.

On the desk between them lay a book — The Development of Personality, its pages worn from use — and a slip of paper marked with a single line in careful ink:

“If there is anything that we wish to change in the child, we should first examine it and see whether it is not something that could better be changed in ourselves.” — Carl Jung

Jeeny: (looking at the note) “It’s one of those truths that sounds simple — until you try to live it.”

Host: Her voice was low and contemplative, the kind of tone that folds reflection into confession.

Jack: (half-smiling) “Yeah. It’s easier to fix someone else’s reflection than to face your own.”

Jeeny: “Especially when that reflection looks up at you and calls you ‘Mom’ or ‘Dad.’”

Jack: (nodding) “Or when it reminds you of everything you’ve buried.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked faintly, its rhythm steady — impartial, like time itself observing without judgment.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how parents talk about children like they’re projects? As if love were carpentry — a matter of smoothing edges and painting over flaws.”

Jack: “Maybe because it’s easier than admitting that every child exposes what the adult refused to outgrow.”

Jeeny: “So you’re saying the child is the mirror.”

Jack: “The most honest one you’ll ever face.”

Host: A gust of wind pressed against the window, rattling it softly — like the sound of truth knocking gently, asking to be let in.

Jeeny: “I remember my mother always getting angry when I was impatient. She’d scold me for it — lecture me about grace and calm. I thought she was trying to teach me. Took me years to realize she was just talking to herself.”

Jack: “Yeah. Most lessons start as self-defense.”

Jeeny: “And most discipline is fear disguised as guidance.”

Jack: “Jung would’ve said that’s projection. The child simply becomes the battlefield where the parent’s unresolved wars play out.”

Host: His words hung heavy, like chalk dust suspended in sunlight — visible only when the light tilts the right way.

Jeeny: (softly) “So every child ends up inheriting not just our blood, but our unfinished business.”

Jack: “Exactly. We hand them the map to our mistakes and tell them not to take the same road.”

Jeeny: “But they always do — because we never really erase the footprints.”

Jack: “No. We just pretend the path was cleaner than it was.”

Host: The radiator hissed briefly — a sigh of warmth, a pause before silence returned.

Jeeny: “You know what terrifies me about that quote? It means change starts where it hurts the most — inside.”

Jack: “And that’s the part no one wants to renovate.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s easier to manage behavior than to mend example.”

Jack: “Exactly. We lecture what we can’t live.”

Jeeny: “Like preaching patience when we’re running on resentment.”

Jack: “Or telling kids to dream big while we settle for less.”

Host: The old wooden floor creaked as she shifted in her chair — the sound intimate, like thought changing shape.

Jeeny: “It makes me wonder — maybe every generation isn’t raising the next one. Maybe it’s redeeming the last.”

Jack: (pausing) “That’s a heavy thought.”

Jeeny: “So is parenting. Or teaching. Or loving. Any time you look into someone who hasn’t learned how to hide yet — it’s like being confronted by your own unfinished humanity.”

Jack: (quietly) “And that’s why we call it love — because otherwise, we’d call it guilt.”

Host: Her eyes lifted, meeting his. The room felt suddenly smaller — or maybe just more truthful.

Jeeny: “You think it’s possible to fix what broke us by loving it in someone else?”

Jack: “No. But we can stop passing it on.”

Jeeny: (nodding slowly) “That’s the real evolution — ending the inheritance of hurt.”

Jack: “Jung wasn’t giving advice. He was giving warning.”

Jeeny: “That the child’s soul doesn’t need correction — ours does.”

Jack: “Exactly. The child doesn’t need shaping; the adult needs unlearning.”

Host: A faint echo of laughter drifted through the hallway — the janitor’s radio playing somewhere distant, a reminder that life, no matter how heavy, keeps humming along.

Jeeny: “It’s ironic, isn’t it? We call them immature, but they feel everything we’ve forgotten how to.”

Jack: “Yeah. Kids cry freely, love easily, forgive quickly. Then we teach them to be adults — which is to say, we teach them restraint.”

Jeeny: “And call it strength.”

Jack: “And call it wisdom.”

Jeeny: “But maybe wisdom isn’t the absence of emotion. Maybe it’s the courage to feel again — consciously this time.”

Jack: “Which means every grown-up who wants to raise a good child has to start by raising themselves.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy and the beauty of it.”

Host: She stood and walked toward the blackboard, picking up a piece of chalk. Her hand trembled slightly as she wrote the quote across the surface in large, uneven letters.

“If there is anything that we wish to change in the child, we should first examine it and see whether it is not something that could better be changed in ourselves.”

She stepped back, her eyes tracing the words as if seeing them for the first time.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Jung didn’t just mean children. I think he meant everyone — every person we try to fix, every world we try to save.”

Jack: “Because the world is just a collection of our projections, wearing faces.”

Jeeny: “And peace begins wherever we stop demanding others carry our shadows.”

Jack: “And start reclaiming them.”

Host: The lights flickered — briefly dimming before stabilizing again. The room, the blackboard, the quote — everything seemed to settle into a profound stillness.

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe the child’s greatest teacher is the one willing to be taught by their own reflection.”

Jack: “And maybe the truest act of parenting is self-awareness.”

Jeeny: “Then Jung wasn’t warning us after all.”

Jack: “No. He was giving us a doorway.”

Host: Outside, the rain began again, steady, rhythmic — like the earth whispering its slow lessons through sound.

And in that dimly lit classroom, Jung’s words glowed from the blackboard like a quiet revelation:

that to change the child,
we must first confront the mirror;
that to heal what’s broken in others,
we must dare to look within;
and that every generation’s greatest revolution
begins not in teaching,
but in transforming.

The chalk dust shimmered in the lamplight.
The rain softened.
And as Jeeny wiped her hands clean,
Jack whispered what both of them had come to understand —
that sometimes, to protect a child’s light,
an adult must first
redeem their own shadow.