The amazing thing about love and attention and encouragement and

Host: The morning light seeped gently through the wide windows of the small bookshop café, spilling across the old wooden tables like honey. The air was soft with the scent of coffee and pages, that intimate mixture of warmth and time. Outside, the city was just waking — a hum of footsteps, laughter, and the faint murmur of lives beginning again.

Jack sat near the back, his laptop open but untouched. He stared at the blinking cursor like it was mocking him. Jeeny arrived with two steaming mugs, setting one down in front of him before taking the seat across. The faint morning sun caught the side of her face, glowing through strands of her dark hair.

Jeeny: “Glennon Doyle once wrote, ‘The amazing thing about love and attention and encouragement and grace and success and joy is that these things are infinite. We get a new supply every single morning, and so we can give it away all day. We never, ever have to monitor the supply of others or grab or hoard.’”

Jack: [half-smiling] “Infinite, huh? That’s a lovely thought — until you run out of coffee or patience.”

Host: A faint chuckle passed between them, soft as a sigh. The café around them hummed with quiet life — the scrape of chairs, the hiss of milk steaming, the rhythm of a place still half-dreaming.

Jeeny: “You’re mocking it already.”

Jack: “No, I’m just allergic to optimism before 9 a.m. Infinite love? Infinite joy? Come on, Jeeny. We’re finite creatures. We burn out. People don’t wake up every morning with a full tank of grace.”

Jeeny: “That’s because they mistake grace for fuel, not flow. It’s not something you stockpile. It’s something you let move through you. The supply isn’t yours — it’s the world’s.”

Jack: “So, you’re saying it just… appears?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every sunrise is proof of renewal. You don’t earn light; it just arrives.”

Host: Jack leaned back, the morning glow catching the edge of his jawline, turning it to gold. He looked toward the window where the sunlight struck a young couple outside — the woman laughing, the man pretending to protest, both alive in that simple rhythm of shared existence.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That we get infinite chances?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because I’ve seen it. People fall apart — and then they start again. Not because the world owes them, but because something inside still says, ‘Try one more time.’ That’s infinite grace, Jack. The quiet invitation to begin again.”

Jack: “But what about the people who can’t start again? The ones who gave everything — love, attention, energy — and got nothing back? The ones who are empty?”

Jeeny: “They’re not empty. They’re waiting to be refilled. The world doesn’t abandon them — it pauses with them. You think the sky doesn’t get tired? And yet, every morning, it opens again. We can too.”

Host: A long silence settled between them — not uncomfortable, but full. Jack turned his mug slowly in his hands, watching the ripples of steam.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve practiced this speech.”

Jeeny: [smiling] “I’ve lived it.”

Host: Her voice softened, almost trembling with truth. Jack’s eyes lifted, curiosity flickering in their gray depths.

Jack: “Tell me.”

Jeeny: “There was a time I stopped giving — to everyone. I’d been betrayed by someone I loved, and I decided that kindness was a scam. I started hoarding whatever good I had left — affection, trust, even smiles. But the less I gave, the smaller I became. My world shrank. One day, I realized — love doesn’t run out because it’s given. It runs out because it’s withheld.”

Jack: [quietly] “And giving fixed it?”

Jeeny: “Not immediately. It’s not magic. But it reminded me that my heart wasn’t broken — it was just closed. There’s a difference.”

Host: The light shifted again, pouring over the table in a brighter, more direct beam. Tiny motes of dust floated between them, suspended like brief stars.

Jack: “You make it sound so easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not easy. It’s radical. Glennon Doyle calls it ‘the defiance of scarcity.’ We’re taught that love is limited — that if someone else gets more, we get less. But imagine if everyone lived like it was infinite. You’d stop competing, stop clutching. You’d breathe again.”

Jack: “You’re talking about a utopia, not reality. People do compete. They hoard attention like it’s currency. They love conditionally, they forgive selectively. That’s how the world works.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the world’s broken because we keep believing that’s how it has to work.”

Host: Her words landed like small sparks. Jack looked down, his hands motionless, the weight of reflection pressing on him. He exhaled slowly, as though releasing something heavy he hadn’t realized he was carrying.

Jack: “You think we could actually live like that — without scarcity?”

Jeeny: “Not all at once. But in moments. Small ones. You can’t change the whole system, but you can change the atmosphere around you. One act of generosity shifts the air.”

Jack: “That sounds… exhausting.”

Jeeny: [smiling softly] “No. It’s liberating. Think about it. When you stop competing for love, you start creating it. When you stop guarding your joy, it multiplies.”

Host: The barista placed a fresh tray of croissants on the counter, their buttery scent threading through the air. The moment felt strangely sacred — ordinary life carrying extraordinary echoes.

Jack: “You make it sound endless. Like there’s no end to giving.”

Jeeny: “There isn’t. That’s the point. The supply renews — every sunrise, every smile, every small act of grace. We don’t run out of love; we just forget to look where it comes from.”

Host: Jack looked out the window again. The street outside had come fully alive now — a mother bending to tie her son’s shoe, an old man feeding pigeons, a vendor handing out flowers to strangers. Little acts. Quiet abundance.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe love doesn’t end — maybe it just changes shape. Maybe what feels like loss is just… redistribution.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Love doesn’t die, it evolves. Attention, kindness, joy — they pass through us, not from us.”

Host: The sunlight grew stronger, filling every corner of the café. Jeeny reached across the table and rested her hand lightly over Jack’s. The gesture wasn’t romantic — it was grounding, human, simple.

Jeeny: “So stop counting, Jack. Stop measuring what you give or get. The math of love doesn’t work that way.”

Jack: “You’re telling me to trust the infinite.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it’s the only math that never runs out.”

Host: Jack smiled — not his usual wry smirk, but something slower, warmer. A quiet surrender. Outside, the morning had fully bloomed — sunlight glancing off the windows, children laughing, strangers passing with gentle nods.

And as they sat there, two souls in a quiet café, the world felt larger — as though every atom of air carried a secret truth:

That love, attention, and grace were never meant to be measured — only multiplied.

The camera lingered on their hands, on the sunlight that refused to fade, on the open window where the breeze carried the scent of life renewed.

Because every morning, the universe whispers the same reminder — endlessly, patiently, forever:

You have enough. Give anyway.