Psychoanalysis - and any good therapy - is a method of increasing

Host: The sky was a sheet of slate, its edges smudged with the first hints of dawn. A light fog rolled in from the bay, curling through the streets like memory in motion. Inside a coastal diner, the kind that never closed, a faint smell of coffee and fried eggs hung in the air, mixing with the low hum of a jukebox that hadn’t changed songs in a decade.

Jack sat in his usual corner booth, his hands wrapped around a chipped mug, his eyes fixed on the window, watching raindrops race each other down the glass. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her notebook open, the quote by Rollo May scribbled across the top of the page:

“Psychoanalysis — and any good therapy — is a method of increasing one’s awareness of destiny in order to increase one’s experience of freedom.”

The words seemed to float between them like steam.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what he meant by that, Jack? Awareness of destiny as a way to feel more free? It’s almost a contradiction, isn’t it?”

Jack: “Almost? It is one. How the hell can you be free if you already have a destiny? That’s like saying you can choose the road after you’ve already been driven there.”

Host: The rain thickened, hammering softly against the roof. The neon sign outside — Open 24 Hours — flickered, casting brief pulses of light across their faces, like the world itself was blinking, unsure whether to wake or dream.

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re thinking of destiny as something fixed, like a script you can’t rewrite. But what if it’s not? What if destiny is more like a compass than a map — it points, but it doesn’t decide. Awareness doesn’t trap you, Jack. It reveals the terrain.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic, Jeeny. But people don’t talk about terrain when they’re stuck in a pattern they can’t escape. That’s what therapy is for, right? To unlearn your own loop. To stop repeating the same mistakes your father made, or your mother. You call that destiny — I call it conditioning.”

Jeeny: “Conditioning is the mechanism; destiny is the meaning underneath it. Therapy doesn’t just make you aware of your habits — it teaches you why they’re there. Why you keep chasing the same kind of pain. That’s not control, Jack — that’s freedom.”

Host: Jack laughed, a short, rough sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked down, stirring the coffee though it was already black.

Jack: “Freedom, huh? Tell that to the guy who’s been in therapy for ten years and still can’t stop sabotaging his marriage. Tell that to the addict who knows exactly why he drinks — and drinks anyway. Awareness doesn’t always liberate. Sometimes it just clarifies the size of your cage.”

Jeeny: “And yet, knowing it’s a cage is still better than pretending it’s a home.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but her words landed like stones. The sound of a train in the distance rumbled through the fog, like an echo of everything they weren’t saying.

Jack: “You sound like one of those optimists who think pain is a lesson. Some things don’t teach, Jeeny — they just hurt. You can analyze it all you want, give it a narrative, but that doesn’t make it any less inevitable.”

Jeeny: “You’re right — pain doesn’t always teach. But it does reveal. The point isn’t to make suffering noble, it’s to make it understood. That’s what Rollo May meant — when you understand what your destiny is pulling you toward, you stop fighting the wrong battles.”

Host: Jack’s brow furrowed; the lines in his face deepened like roads on a map. He looked up at her, his grey eyes steady, his voice lower now, almost intimate.

Jack: “You really believe we have one, don’t you? A destiny. That all this — the loss, the choices, the chaos — is leading somewhere. That there’s a thread behind it all.”

Jeeny: “I don’t believe it’s given to us. I believe it’s revealed by us. Every decision you make, every shadow you confront, every memory you stop running from — that’s how you meet your destiny halfway.”

Host: Outside, a truck passed, its headlights washing through the fog and painting their faces in white light for a moment, before fading again into the distance. Jeeny’s hands were now resting on the table, still, calm, her tea long cold.

Jack: “Halfway, huh? So you’re saying therapy’s like a map of where your soul has already been — and where it wants to go.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about fixing yourself — it’s about knowing yourself. And knowing that even your flaws have their own direction. That’s what makes you free: not the absence of destiny, but the participation in it.”

Jack: “You make it sound like freedom is a dance with fate.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Maybe the only real freedom we ever have is how we respond to what we were always meant to face.”

Host: The rain had stopped, but the windows were still beaded with drops, each one catching the first faint light of morning. Jack watched them, silent now. His hands had relaxed, the tension in his shoulders slowly uncoiling.

Jack: “You know, I once had a therapist who said something like that. He said, ‘You don’t go to therapy to become happy, you go to become aware.’ I fired him the next week.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because he was right. And I wasn’t ready to hear it.”

Host: A faint smile crossed Jeeny’s lips, the kind that held both sympathy and understanding. The jukebox clicked, and an old blues tune started, slow and aching, its melody curling through the air like a quiet truth.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what destiny really is — the truth you keep avoiding, until you finally recognize it as your own.”

Jack: “And therapy’s the mirror that forces you to look.”

Host: The first sunlight broke through the clouds, a faint beam spilling across the table, illuminating the steam that rose from Jack’s coffee. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air felt lighter, as if something unseen had shifted.

Jack: “So maybe May was right. Maybe freedom isn’t the absence of fate — it’s the intimacy with it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. When you finally see the shape of what’s been driving you, you can start to steer it. Awareness doesn’t shrink you — it expands you.”

Host: Outside, a seagull cried, the sound sharp and pure against the morning air. The fog began to lift, revealing the shoreline — the world, quiet and renewed, yet unchanged.

Jack raised his mug, smiling faintly.
Jack: “To destiny, then. The most polite prison we ever build for ourselves.”

Jeeny: “To freedom — the art of walking its hallways with grace.”

Host: They drank in silence, the light slowly spilling across their faces, warming the shadows beneath their eyes. Outside, the sea breathed, steady and endless, as if the world itself were in therapy — learning, quietly, to become aware of its own destiny, so it might finally learn how to be free.