Many people think of perfectionism as striving to be your best

Host: The office was nearly empty, lit only by the low hum of fluorescent lights and the blue glow of a city night pressing through the glass walls. Outside, the rain fell like static against the windows—steady, soft, endless. Papers were scattered across a polished table, coffee cups abandoned beside laptops and blinking phones.

Jack sat slouched at one end, his tie loosened, his eyes shadowed by exhaustion. Across from him, Jeeny, in a loose grey sweater, leaned forward, her hands clasped, her voice calm but edged with quiet determination.

Host: The clock on the wall ticked like a metronome for the silence between them. Two colleagues, two philosophies, suspended at the edge of another long night in a world that measured worth in deliverables.

Jeeny: “You know what Brene Brown said? ‘Many people think of perfectionism as striving to be your best, but it is not about self-improvement; it's about earning approval and acceptance.’”

Jack: (dryly) “Sounds like something HR would print on a poster.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But that’s because it’s true—and everyone here’s living proof.”

Host: She gestured to the empty desks around them, the flickering monitors, the stacked files. Ghosts of ambition lingered in every chair.

Jack: “You think wanting to be perfect is bad? The company doesn’t run on mediocrity, Jeeny. It runs on people who care enough to get it right.”

Jeeny: “No, it runs on people who are too afraid to fail. There’s a difference.”

Host: Jack looked up sharply. The light from the city outside cast thin bars across his face—half light, half shadow.

Jack: “Afraid to fail? You say that like it’s a flaw. You think Edison wasn’t