My job is to show my clients that their anger is rarely someone

Host:
The office was quiet except for the faint hum of a city evening bleeding in through tall glass windows. The skyline beyond shimmered — a mosaic of lights, loneliness, and the subtle ache of ambition that never quite sleeps. Inside, everything was carefully arranged: a leather couch, a few plants, bookshelves lined with self-help tomes, and one small hourglass that ticked time not in seconds, but in self-awareness.

Jack sat slouched on the couch, his jacket tossed beside him. He looked tired — not from work, but from carrying emotions he couldn’t quite name. Across from him, in the soft glow of a desk lamp, Jeeny sat in a simple chair, notebook balanced on her knees. The air between them was dense with words unsaid — and truths waiting to be named.

Jeeny: softly, quoting from memory “Marshall Goldsmith once said — ‘My job is to show my clients that their anger is rarely someone else's fault. It’s their flaw.’”

Jack: letting out a low chuckle “A nice way of saying, ‘Look in the mirror, not out the window.’”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly. Except most of us polish the window first.”

Host:
The city lights flickered across the glass wall, catching on Jack’s reflection. His face — half in shadow, half in clarity — looked like a man torn between self-defense and realization. He rubbed his temples slowly, his voice quieter now.

Jack: thoughtfully “It’s hard to accept that, isn’t it? That the rage you feel — the one that feels so justified — might actually be pointing inward.”

Jeeny: nodding gently “Because anger’s easy when it’s someone else’s story. It’s harder when it’s your reflection screaming back.”

Jack: dryly “So you’re saying all the times I’ve blamed the world — the boss, the deadlines, the people — I was really just mad at myself?”

Jeeny: softly “Not mad at yourself. Disappointed. Disappointment in the self is the shadow that anger throws.”

Host:
The hourglass clicked, grains of white sand slipping slowly down like seconds melting into truth. Outside, a siren wailed — distant, but present enough to remind them that chaos always finds a way to echo, even in quiet rooms.

Jack leaned forward, his voice low and almost confessional.

Jack: quietly “You know, I once yelled at a junior analyst for missing a deadline. The truth? I hadn’t sent him the file. But in that moment, I felt powerful blaming him. Blame gives shape to our insecurity.”

Jeeny: nodding softly “It’s control disguised as justice.”

Jack: smirking faintly “Yeah. I told myself it was about standards. But really, it was about shame.”

Jeeny: gently “Anger’s favorite disguise.”

Host:
The room fell silent for a moment, heavy but not hostile. The kind of silence that therapy rooms and confessionals share — thick with recognition, thin with defense. The hum of the air conditioner filled the pause, a reminder that even stillness needs rhythm.

Jeeny: quietly “Goldsmith’s point isn’t that anger is wrong — it’s that it’s misplaced. Anger’s just a symptom of something ignored. When we own it, it stops being poison. It becomes direction.”

Jack: looking up, intrigued “Direction?”

Jeeny: softly “Yes. If you trace it back far enough, anger points to something sacred — a value you feel has been violated. But the question is: did someone else violate it, or did you?”

Jack: after a pause “So, I’m the one betraying myself.”

Jeeny: gently “Sometimes, yes. When you compromise what you know is right, even a little, the soul files a complaint. That’s what anger is — your conscience asking for a meeting.”

Host:
The lamp light dimmed slightly, and a shadow stretched across the floor — long, tender, and inevitable. Jack leaned back, exhaling slowly, his voice quieter now.

Jack: softly “Funny thing is, I’ve spent years helping others control their anger — giving advice, writing emails, leading meetings. But I never thought of it as my own reflection.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “That’s the irony of leadership. We teach what we most need to learn.”

Jack: after a beat “And we lead best when we stop pretending we’re unflawed.”

Jeeny: softly “Yes. Because vulnerability disarms rage faster than victory.”

Host:
The hourglass reached its end, the last grain of sand falling with quiet precision. Jeeny flipped it over, the gesture simple, almost ritualistic — a reminder that time, like emotion, can always begin again.

Jack watched it for a while, the movement hypnotic, his voice now low and raw.

Jack: quietly “You ever notice how anger makes you feel alive for a moment — like fire — but leaves you colder than before?”

Jeeny: nodding softly “Because anger consumes energy, not builds it. It burns bridges, but also the builder.”

Jack: softly “And still, we keep striking the match.”

Jeeny: gently “Because control feels safer than accountability.”

Host:
The city beyond the window pulsed with light — countless apartments, countless lives, each one carrying its own silent anger, its own small flare of unmet expectation. The night seemed to listen as their words softened.

Jeeny leaned forward, her tone calm but firm — the kind of tone that cuts through without wounding.

Jeeny: quietly “Goldsmith’s work isn’t about guilt. It’s about ownership. When you realize your anger is yours, you also realize your peace can be too.”

Jack: smiling faintly “So the cure for blame is bravery.”

Jeeny: nodding “Yes. The bravery to say — I am the common denominator in my conflicts.”

Jack: after a pause “That’s brutal.”

Jeeny: softly “And liberating.”

Host:
The camera would linger on the two of them now — the flickering light, the glass wall glowing faintly with the city’s heartbeat. Jeeny closed her notebook; Jack rubbed his eyes and let out a slow exhale — not in defeat, but release.

Jeeny: quietly “When anger turns inward and meets understanding, it stops being rage. It becomes responsibility. And that’s where change begins.”

Jack: softly, nodding “Then maybe flaws aren’t failures — just invitations to grow up.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. Every outburst is a mirror, not a weapon.”

Host:
The hourglass glimmered, the grains of sand still falling — steady, patient, eternal. The city outside glowed like a heartbeat seen from afar, steady and fragile, like humanity itself.

And in that still room, Marshall Goldsmith’s words settled, clear as reflection, sharp as truth:

“My job is to show my clients that their anger is rarely someone else's fault. It’s their flaw.”

Because anger
is not the enemy —
it’s the echo.

It repeats what we refused to hear,
what we blamed others for missing,
what we abandoned in ourselves.

Every outburst
is a confession disguised as thunder.

And when we finally listen —
not to defend,
but to understand —
we discover that flaws
are not cracks in the mirror,
but openings
where light gets in.

The hourglass turns again.
And this time,
the sand falls softer —
not from fury,
but from forgiveness.