Some years ago there was a study to discover the most stressful

Host: The city was still half asleep, a pale mist rising from the river and curling through the streets like ghosts of the night before. The first buses groaned awake in the depot, their engines coughing, their headlights slicing through the fog. Inside one of them, Jack sat behind the wheel, his hands resting on the cold metal, his eyes fixed on the empty road ahead.

Jeeny entered through the front door, a paper cup of coffee in her hand, her breath visible in the morning chill. She took a seat just behind him, her face thoughtful, her eyes heavy with both sleep and meaning.

The air smelled faintly of diesel, metal, and rain-soaked concrete—the scent of routine, of motion, of the invisible lives that pass unnoticed.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, Jonathan Sacks once said the most stressful job isn’t being a CEO or a president—it’s being a bus driver. I believe him. Look at this—hours in traffic, no applause, no recognition, just noise and eyes staring through you.”

Jeeny: “And yet, Jack, those same bus drivers carry the whole city every day. They move lives, not just people. Isn’t that a kind of quiet greatness?”

Host: Jack chuckled, his voice low, roughened by caffeine and cynicism. The bus engine rumbled beneath them, a steady heartbeat of machinery.

Jack: “Greatness? You call this greatness? Sitting twelve hours in a box, inhaling exhaust, dodging drivers who think they own the road? No, Jeeny—this is survival. Stress dressed as service.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that true of every calling, Jack? Even the high ones—prime ministers, surgeons, artists? The burden isn’t the position, it’s the expectation. The bus driver’s just honest about his.”

Host: The engine roared as Jack turned the key, the bus lights flickering to life. Through the fogged windshield, the city began to take shape—shopfronts, pavements, lonely commuters waiting with blank faces.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. Stress doesn’t come from meaning—it comes from monotony. You drive the same route, same faces, same streets, and the same broken ticket machine. There’s no purpose in repetition.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what makes it noble. The willingness to repeat what others overlook, to keep showing up even when no one thanks you. That’s endurance, Jack. Maybe even faith.”

Host: The bus doors hissed open as a woman with groceries stepped on. She didn’t look at Jack, only flashed her pass and moved silently down the aisle.

Jack: “Faith? You mean resignation. You do something long enough, you stop thinking about it. That’s not faith—it’s numbness.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Numbness is when you stop caring. But look at you—you care enough to be angry. That’s proof the soul’s still alive.”

Host: Jack’s eyes met hers in the rearview mirror, the reflection trembling slightly as the bus rolled forward into the morning traffic.

Jack: “You sound like one of those preachers who think suffering has beauty. But there’s nothing beautiful about being invisible. These drivers—people like me—we’re the city’s background noise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But without background noise, there’s no music. You think the city would function without you? Without the invisible ones? Sacks said that study revealed more than stress—it revealed how disconnected we are from empathy. We glorify leaders but ignore those who hold the world together.”

Host: The bus hit a pothole, sending a faint shudder through the floorboards. A few passengers muttered, the sound of irritation blending with the rain beginning to fall again.

Jack: “Empathy doesn’t pay the rent. You can praise drivers all you want—it won’t make the road shorter or the hours lighter.”

Jeeny: “No, but it might make the ride kinder. The point isn’t to erase the struggle, Jack—it’s to remember that behind every wheel, every counter, every uniform, there’s a human pulse trying to stay steady under pressure.”

Host: The rain thickened, tapping against the glass like a restless drumbeat. Jack’s hands tightened on the wheel, his knuckles whitening.

Jack: “So what—stress is holy now? Suffering means significance? That sounds like something people say to justify exploitation.”

Jeeny: “Not suffering. Responsibility. The more lives you touch, the heavier the weight. A CEO’s stress comes from power. A driver’s stress comes from care—because one mistake can cost everything. That’s not lesser—it’s deeper.”

Host: A long silence filled the bus. The cityscape drifted past—graffiti, billboards, people with umbrellas moving like slow, colorful ghosts.

Jack: “I get what you’re saying, but it’s easy to glorify burden when you’re not under it. When you’re sitting behind me, sipping coffee.”

Jeeny: “I sit behind you because I want to see the world through your mirror, Jack. You think I don’t carry weight? Maybe not your kind—but everyone drives a different route. Some of us just do it in our minds.”

Host: The bus stopped at a red light. The wipers swayed rhythmically, slicing rain into momentary clarity. Jack stared ahead at the intersection, the light’s reflection shimmering across his face.

Jack: “You know what the worst part is? Nobody remembers your name. You’re a moving ghost in everyone’s day.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you remember theirs. That’s what makes you different. You notice—the old man who sits near the front, the student always late, the mother counting coins. You see them. Maybe that’s what being human means: to notice the unnoticed.”

Host: The light turned green, and Jack accelerated slowly, his voice quieter now, less armored.

Jack: “Funny thing, isn’t it? The study was supposed to find the hardest job. But maybe it found the most human one instead.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because stress isn’t just pain—it’s the heartbeat of those who still care. It’s the cost of empathy in motion.”

Host: The bus hummed forward, the rain easing into a gentle drizzle. Passengers began to speak softly, a low chorus of ordinary lives intersecting in the warm interior.

Jack: “So, according to you, stress is a sign of purpose?”

Jeeny: “Not always. But sometimes, yes. If you feel too much, it means you’re still connected—to work, to people, to meaning. The danger isn’t stress, Jack—it’s indifference.”

Host: The sun broke faintly through the clouds, laying streaks of gold light across the wet pavement. Jack slowed the bus, his eyes softer, his breathing steadier.

Jack: “You know, when I first started this job, I used to think I was trapped. But maybe… I’m just part of something larger—moving people through their small pieces of life.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe that’s what Sacks wanted us to see. That dignity isn’t reserved for titles or thrones—it’s found in the patience to steer through chaos and still greet the next passenger with grace.”

Host: The bus pulled over, its doors hissing open. A child climbed aboard, dripping wet, clutching a schoolbag too big for him. Jack smiled and waved him through without a word.

The child’s grin, simple and unguarded, reflected faintly in the mirror—a small, radiant truth.

Jack: “Maybe that’s it, Jeeny. Maybe the most stressful jobs are the ones that keep the world running quietly.”

Jeeny: “And maybe the most extraordinary souls are the ones who keep showing up despite it.”

Host: The rain stopped, and for a brief, golden moment, the city shimmered—every puddle a mirror, every reflection alive with motion. The bus moved on, its engine humming like a heartbeat, carrying with it the weight and wonder of ordinary humanity.

And as it vanished into the light, the fog lifted, revealing a simple truth whispered across the streets—that stress, when born from service, is not a burden, but a quiet form of love.