The courage to be is the courage to accept oneself, in spite of

Host: The night was dense with fog, swallowing the city’s sounds until only the faint hum of a streetlamp and the occasional whisper of rain remained. The alley café at the corner of Rue des Sables sat like an old confession booth, its windows glowing dimly against the darkened world. Inside, the air was thick with the aroma of coffee and memory.

Jack sat by the window, his grey eyes reflecting the neon flicker of a sign outside, while Jeeny sat across from him, hands folded, eyes lowered, as though searching for something within her own silence. Between them, a candle flame trembled — as if afraid of what words might come next.

Jeeny: “Paul Tillich once said, ‘The courage to be is the courage to accept oneself, in spite of being unacceptable.’ I’ve been thinking about that, Jack. About how many of us spend our lives trying to be acceptable… to someone, to something… and lose ourselves in the process.”

Jack: “Tillich was a theologian, Jeeny. He had the luxury of believing in transcendence. But out here, in the real world, acceptance doesn’t come from courage — it comes from conformity. You play the part society writes for you, or you’re written out of the story.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the windowpane, scattering a few napkins from the counter. Jeeny’s eyes lifted, her gaze steady, voice soft yet unyielding.

Jeeny: “But what’s the point of being in the story if you can’t be yourself in it? That’s not living, Jack. That’s surviving. Tillich wasn’t speaking of luxury — he was speaking of existence. To stand before the mirror, see every flaw, every shame, and still whisper: I am. That’s courage.”

Jack: “No, that’s self-delusion. You can tell yourself you’re enough all day, but if the world sees you as unacceptable — if it shuts its doors, its hearts, its jobs — what then? Courage doesn’t pay the rent. Acceptance doesn’t change the way people judge.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it doesn’t change them. But it changes you. That’s what he meant. The world has always judged, Jack. Socrates drank hemlock for speaking truth. Van Gogh died unknown, yet his art now defines beauty itself. They were unacceptable — but they were. That’s the courage Tillich spoke of.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his fingers tapping the table as if keeping time with some inner conflict. The candlelight carved shadows across his face, half illumined, half lost in darkness.

Jack: “Easy to romanticize dead men, Jeeny. They didn’t have to face the mess after the credits rolled. Try telling someone who’s been rejected their whole life — for how they look, love, or believe — that they should just ‘accept themselves.’ It sounds noble, but it’s cruel in practice.”

Jeeny: “Cruel? Or necessary? Because the alternative is to keep hating yourself for not being what others demand. Isn’t that a deeper cruelty?”

Jack: “No. It’s reality. Self-hatred at least means you’re aware something’s wrong — something you could change.”

Jeeny: “Change what? Your nature? Your truth? You sound like the same world that breaks people for being different.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, beating softly on the window. A train horn echoed in the distance, low and mournful. Jack looked away, his reflection blurred in the glass, as if he couldn’t tell where the man ended and the world began.

Jack: “You talk as if self-acceptance is freedom. But it’s not. It’s surrender. It’s saying, ‘I’ll stay broken, and that’s fine.’ The world doesn’t respect that. The world eats that.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s not surrender — it’s defiance. To stand as you are in front of a world that says, ‘You don’t belong,’ and say, ‘I exist anyway.’ That’s the bravest act of all.”

Jack: “Bravery isn’t about words. It’s about consequences. You can say you exist — but when they burn your books, erase your name, laugh at your dreams… what’s left of courage then?”

Jeeny: “Still you. That’s what’s left. Look at Nelson Mandela. Twenty-seven years in prison — and he came out unbroken. The world tried to make him unacceptable, but he accepted himself so deeply that even his captors couldn’t erase him.”

Jack: “Mandela had a cause. A nation behind him. People waiting. Most of us? We’re just alone.”

Jeeny: “Then all the more reason to find courage. Because when the world abandons you, your only home is yourself.”

Host: A pause fell. The clock ticked, slow and deliberate, its rhythm cutting through the tension. Jack’s voice dropped, low and rough, like gravel beneath rain.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. But what about people who’ve done unforgivable things? People who are unacceptable — not because the world made them so, but because they chose to be?”

Jeeny: “You mean guilt. Shame. Sin.”

Jack: “Call it whatever you like. A man who’s lied, hurt others, wasted his life — should he accept himself too?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Especially him. Because acceptance isn’t approval. It’s acknowledgment. It’s the first step to redemption. You can’t change what you won’t face.”

Jack: “Redemption… You always talk like there’s a clean path back from the dirt.”

Jeeny: “Not clean. Never clean. But possible.”

Host: The flame flickered, catching Jeeny’s eyes, which glowed with a quiet fire. Jack leaned forward, his hands clasped, knuckles white.

Jack: “And what if you can’t forgive yourself? What if every night you remember what you’ve done, and it’s unbearable?”

Jeeny: “Then you learn to live with it. You don’t erase the pain — you carry it. Like a scar that says, I survived myself. That’s what Tillich meant, Jack. Courage isn’t about being pure — it’s about being whole despite the fractures.”

Jack: “You really believe wholeness can grow out of brokenness?”

Jeeny: “I do. Just like a seed splits before it grows. The break is the beginning.”

Host: The storm outside began to soften, turning from rage to whisper. The streetlamp’s glow shimmered on the wet pavement, painting the room in golden melancholy. Jack’s expression shifted, something fragile flickering beneath his cynicism.

Jack: “You talk about courage like it’s poetry. But courage, Jeeny… courage is a dirty thing. It’s not beautiful. It’s waking up to a life that feels like punishment and walking through it anyway.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she whispered. “Exactly. That’s why it’s beautiful.”

Host: Silence. The flame steadied, as though it too had found its stillness.

Jeeny: “Jack… what is it you can’t accept?”

Host: He looked at her — really looked — and for the first time, the armor of his logic cracked. A shadow of something unspoken trembled in his eyes.

Jack: “Myself,” he said simply. “All the versions of me I’ve buried to stay acceptable.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to exhume them. To stop being acceptable and start being alive.”

Jack: “And if who I am isn’t… enough?”

Jeeny: “Then you love yourself anyway. That’s the courage. To love the unacceptable.”

Host: The rain stopped. A single beam of light slipped through the window, touching both their faces — a silent truce between night and dawn. Jack exhaled slowly, as if releasing years of unspoken truth. Jeeny reached across the table, her hand resting over his.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack… courage isn’t found in becoming better. It’s in being, even when you think you shouldn’t exist.”

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the hardest fight isn’t against the world… but against the voice inside that says you don’t deserve to be.”

Jeeny: “And that voice, Jack — it only loses when you answer back: I am.”

Host: The city lights dimmed as morning crept in, turning the fog into a soft veil of gold. The candle flame finally died, leaving only the sunrise to finish its vigil. Outside, the world went on — indifferent, imperfect — but inside that small café, two souls had found a fragile kind of peace.

And in that quiet, Tillich’s words seemed to hum through the air, like the final note of a forgotten hymn:
“The courage to be is the courage to accept oneself, in spite of being unacceptable.”