The best years of your life are the ones in which you decide your

Host: The cafeteria was nearly empty.
Late afternoon sunlight spilled through the tall windows, pooling in long amber lines across the floor. The smell of coffee, ink, and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights made the space feel like a waiting room for thoughts that hadn’t yet decided whether to stay or go.

Jack sat by the window, his sleeves rolled, his face reflected in the glass alongside the faint motion of clouds. Across from him, Jeeny stirred her tea without drinking it, watching the circles of steam drift upward like the ghosts of unspoken confessions. Between them sat a tattered book of psychology quotes, its pages marked by years of use and coffee stains.

Jeeny’s finger paused on a page, tracing the words like they were something she’d been trying to remember.

“The best years of your life are the ones in which you decide your problems are your own. You do not blame them on your mother, the ecology, or the president. You realize that you control your own destiny.”
— Albert Ellis

Jeeny read it aloud slowly, her voice calm but edged with something sharp — the kind of truth that stings when it’s too close.

Jeeny: “Control your own destiny. Sounds simple until you try it.”

Jack: “Simple’s the cruelest word for anything true.”

Host: The clock ticked above them, steady as a metronome. Somewhere in the corner, a coffee machine hissed and sighed — the only witness to their silence.

Jeeny: “He’s right though. We spend half our lives looking for someone to blame for how things turned out. Parents, governments, bad luck, bad weather.”

Jack: “And the other half blaming ourselves for not being able to fix it.”

Jeeny: “Which is just another way of refusing responsibility. Self-pity feels a lot like control until it eats you alive.”

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s learned that the hard way.”

Jeeny: “Haven’t we all?”

Host: The light shifted across her face — half shadow, half fire. She looked out the window where the city stretched endlessly, every person inside it walking their private line between chaos and choice.

Jack: “Ellis built his whole theory on that idea — that happiness isn’t about avoiding problems. It’s about owning them.”

Jeeny: “Owning them doesn’t make them easier.”

Jack: “No. Just more honest.”

Jeeny: “And honesty’s the first step toward healing, right?”

Jack: “Or destruction. Sometimes they’re the same step.”

Host: He leaned back in his chair, the faint creak of metal filling the quiet.

Jeeny: “You know what I hate about that quote? It’s the way it makes freedom sound lonely. Like the price of control is isolation.”

Jack: “Because it is. Once you stop blaming, you stop belonging to the crowd.”

Jeeny: “That’s terrifying.”

Jack: “It’s adulthood.”

Host: The wind outside picked up, brushing dust along the windowpane. Jeeny’s tea had gone cold, untouched, her reflection now double-exposed in the glass — the girl she used to be, and the woman who’d stopped waiting to be rescued.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was younger, I thought destiny was something that happened to you. Like the universe had a script, and you were just trying to remember your lines.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now I think destiny’s just the story you start writing when you stop rehearsing excuses.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “And the rewrites never stop.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Every mistake’s an edit.”

Host: A silence followed — long, soft, unashamed. The kind of silence that only comes after someone says something too honest to rush past.

Jack: “Ellis said people don’t suffer from events — they suffer from their thoughts about events. I always liked that.”

Jeeny: “Because it gives you the illusion of control?”

Jack: “Because it gives you the option of control.”

Jeeny: “Option?”

Jack: “Yeah. Some days, I don’t want to control anything. Some days, I want to blame the weather, the system, my father, whatever. Responsibility’s heavy. Sometimes you just want to set it down.”

Jeeny: “And what happens when you do?”

Jack: “The world keeps spinning, and you feel small again. Until you realize small isn’t powerless — it’s perspective.”

Host: The light began to fade, that soft, golden hour that makes everything — even the worn tables and cracked linoleum — look almost holy.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? The best years of your life aren’t when you stop blaming. They’re when you forgive.”

Jack: “Forgive who?”

Jeeny: “Everyone. Especially yourself. Responsibility without forgiveness turns into cruelty.”

Jack: “Self-cruelty’s the only kind people romanticize.”

Jeeny: “Because it feels noble.”

Jack: “But it’s just ego in disguise.”

Host: She smiled faintly, her eyes on the window now, where the first hints of sunset colored the city’s edges — deep orange against grey stone.

Jeeny: “Ellis said we control our own destiny. But maybe control’s the wrong word. You don’t control the waves — you just learn how to swim.”

Jack: “And how not to drown in your own excuses.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The noise of a passing bus shuddered through the window, shaking the cups slightly. Jack watched her for a moment, then reached for the book, running his finger under the quote again.

Jack: “You know, he was brutal, but he was right. The moment you stop blaming anyone else, life gets quieter. Not easier, but cleaner. It’s like clearing fog — you finally see the road, even if it’s steep.”

Jeeny: “And no one to drive it but you.”

Jack: “That’s freedom.”

Jeeny: “That’s terrifying.”

Jack: “Same thing.”

Host: They both laughed softly, the kind of laugh that carries a lifetime of understanding.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Ellis meant. The best years aren’t the happiest. They’re the ones where you stop outsourcing your pain.”

Jack: “And your power.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: Outside, the sky turned from gold to rose, the first stars trembling faintly above the skyline. The café’s hum faded into a soft quiet, like the city itself was listening.

Jack: “You think most people ever get there? That point where they stop blaming?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not fully. But every time you catch yourself before saying, ‘It’s their fault,’ that’s a small revolution.”

Jack: “So destiny’s built on revolutions that no one sees.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. The kind that happen inside.”

Host: She closed the book, sliding it across the table toward him. Her smile was faint but sure, the kind that comes not from triumph, but from truth accepted.

Jeeny: “You realize, don’t you, that we can’t change the past, but we can stop repeating it. That’s what owning your problems means.”

Jack: “And that’s when the real years begin.”

Jeeny: “The best years.”

Host: The light dimmed as the sun disappeared completely, leaving only the reflections of the two of them in the glass — side by side, surrounded by the quiet hum of a world still figuring itself out.

And as the moment stretched into stillness, Albert Ellis’s words echoed softly through the air, like a mantra, like a mirror:

that maturity begins where blame ends;
that freedom is not escape,
but the courage to face your own reflection;
and that the best years
are not those given by time —
but those taken by choice,
when you finally stop waiting
for someone else
to fix your story,
and start writing
your own.