My experience as a school nurse taught me that we need to make a

Host: The morning was soft and slow, a pale fog hanging low over the playground. The faint echo of children’s laughter drifted across the schoolyard, mingling with the rhythmic thud of a bouncing ball. Inside the small, sunlit nurse’s office, the air smelled of antiseptic, chalk dust, and something faintly nostalgic — like childhood itself trying to breathe through the years.

Jack leaned against the doorframe, his hands in his pockets, watching Jeeny as she carefully packed bandages into a small drawer. A faded poster behind her read: “Healthy Kids, Healthy Future.”

The light fell across her hair, catching the strands like threads of ink in the golden morning.

Jeeny: (softly, without looking up) “Lois Capps once said, ‘My experience as a school nurse taught me that we need to make a concerted effort to increase physical fitness among children, encourage Americans to eat better, but there is more.’”

Jack: (smirking) “There’s always ‘more.’ Politicians love leaving the door open for speeches.”

Jeeny: (turning, smiling faintly) “Maybe. But she wasn’t talking about policy. She was talking about care — about the kind of health that doesn’t show up on charts.”

Host: The bell rang in the hallway — sharp, metallic, echoing like a call to arms. Through the open window, the faint scent of freshly cut grass drifted in.

Jack: “You mean emotional health.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And moral health. The kind that doesn’t come from vitamins or treadmills.”

Jack: (crossing his arms) “Sounds poetic. But I don’t think the world’s collapsing because kids aren’t eating enough kale.”

Jeeny: (gently) “No, but maybe it’s collapsing because we stopped teaching them to care — about their bodies, their minds, and each other.”

Host: Her words fell quietly, like a slow rain, and the room seemed to still around them. Jack looked out the window, watching a group of children run in clumsy circles, their faces lit with laughter, their shoes kicking up tiny storms of dust.

Jack: “I get your point. But you’re romanticizing health. Life’s busy. People barely have time to breathe, let alone meditate on their broccoli.”

Jeeny: “Health isn’t a luxury, Jack. It’s the foundation of every choice we make. If the body breaks, the mind follows. And when the mind breaks, the soul goes silent.”

Host: The clock above the desk ticked methodically, marking time like a heart that refused to hurry.

Jack: “You sound like one of those holistic wellness people. You think eating spinach is going to cure loneliness?”

Jeeny: (half-laughing) “No. But it’s a start. Everything’s connected — what we eat, how we move, how we think. Capps understood that. She saw it in the kids — tired eyes, heavy bodies, junk food lunches, but mostly… emptiness.”

Jack: (sighing) “You’re talking about a culture, not a diet.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Health isn’t just absence of disease. It’s presence of meaning. Of balance. Of community. We’ve medicalized everything — but what we’ve really lost is harmony.”

Host: A child knocked on the door, holding a scraped knee and a shy smile. Jeeny knelt, cleaned the small wound with gentle hands, and pressed on a bandage patterned with tiny stars.

Jeeny: (to the child) “There. You’ll be fine. Just don’t forget to play again tomorrow.”

The boy nodded and ran off, his laughter trailing behind like a ribbon of light.

Jack: (watching her) “You think that’s what she meant — by ‘there’s more’?”

Jeeny: “Yes. More than food. More than fitness. She meant presence. Attention. That’s what health really is — the act of noticing.”

Host: The sunlight strengthened, cutting through the fog, painting their faces in warm gold. Outside, the children’s voices rose, bright and chaotic, like music made of pure life.

Jack: “Funny. I used to think health was about discipline — running, diets, control. You’re making it sound… human.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. We talk about calories, but never compassion. We teach children to avoid sugar but not sadness. We tell them to grow strong, but never how to be gentle.”

Jack: (leaning closer, intrigued) “So, what’s the cure then? For all this — for the emptiness, the noise, the fatigue you’re describing?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Maybe it’s in the small things. Shared meals. Time outdoors. Listening. Movement that feels like joy, not punishment. A teacher who notices the quiet kid in the corner. A parent who eats dinner with their child instead of scrolling through a phone.”

Host: The hum of distant traffic seeped through the walls. The room smelled of soap and sunlight and old wood — simple things, the kind you forget to notice until you need them most.

Jack: (thoughtful) “You make it sound like health is an act of love.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “It is. Toward ourselves, toward others, toward the world we live in. Every act of care — eating well, resting, listening — it’s all a form of saying, ‘I want to stay alive, not just exist.’”

Jack: “And you think we’ve forgotten that.”

Jeeny: “We traded it for convenience. For speed. For noise. Capps saw that in those kids — she wasn’t just worried about obesity. She was worried about disconnection. About how a generation was growing up full, but not nourished.”

Host: The wind picked up outside, carrying the faint scent of rain and playground chalk. The leaves shivered on the old oak tree, scattering light like silver coins.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, lunch was the only time my family sat down together. My mother used to insist we talk. No phones, no TV. Just food and words. Maybe that’s what you mean.”

Jeeny: “Exactly that. Eating together wasn’t just nourishment — it was belonging. You were part of something alive. That’s what health is — belonging.”

Host: The bell rang again. A wave of voices erupted outside, a tide of joy and energy. Jack smiled faintly, closing his eyes for a brief second as if remembering something lost but still reachable.

Jack: “You know, I used to think being healthy was about control. Now it sounds more like surrender.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Surrender to balance. To simplicity. To the rhythm of being human again.”

Host: The room seemed lighter now. The dust motes danced in the air, the light soft as a heartbeat. Jeeny leaned against the desk, her expression calm but fierce — like someone who has seen both illness and hope and still believes in the middle ground.

Jeeny: “Lois Capps said there’s more — and she was right. The ‘more’ is not just diet or fitness. It’s the way we choose to live together, breathe together, remember that health isn’t just of the body but of the spirit. A fit nation without empathy is still sick.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Maybe that’s the diagnosis of our age. Not disease, but disconnection.”

Jeeny: “And the treatment is reconnection. With the earth, with food, with each other.”

Host: The sun broke fully through the clouds, illuminating the nurse’s office in golden light. A few children ran past the window, their shadows long and fleeting, their laughter cutting through the stillness like a song.

Jack looked at them, then at Jeeny, and for once, his cynicism faltered — replaced by something quieter, something that looked almost like belief.

Jack: “You know what, Jeeny? Maybe the fifth food group should be kindness.”

Jeeny: (smiling warmly) “Now that’s a diet I’d recommend.”

Host: Outside, the sky cleared completely, and the playground burst into color — blue swings, red slides, green grass glistening after the mist. The world seemed alive again, breathing with them.

And as they stood in that humble office, surrounded by books, sunlight, and the faint heartbeat of a living school, it was suddenly clear:

The “more” that Lois Capps spoke of was not about what we eat or how we move —
but how deeply we care,
and how willing we are to make wellness not a program,
but a way of being human.