To establish true self-esteem we must concentrate on our

Host: The train station was nearly empty at midnight. The air carried the faint smell of metal, coffee, and the ghost of thousands of daily departures. Lights flickered overhead, throwing long shadows across the tiled floor.

Jack sat on a worn bench, his coat draped loosely over his shoulders, a small notebook open in his lap. He had been writing, then crossing out, then writing again — a battle fought in silence.

Jeeny arrived quietly, her steps soft against the floor. She carried two paper cups of coffee, one trembling slightly in her hand from the cold. When she saw him, her expression softened, but there was an unspoken tension between them — the kind that comes not from anger, but from too many unspoken things.

Jeeny: “You’re still awake. I thought the night had swallowed you by now.”

Jack: “Sleep’s for people who aren’t thinking about their mistakes.”

Jeeny: “You mean people who’ve learned to forgive themselves.”

Host: She handed him the coffee and sat, the bench groaning under their shared weight. Outside, the last train rumbled by, its wheels screaming softly like distant regret.

Jack: “Denis Waitley once said something funny — about self-esteem. Said if you want to feel good about yourself, you should focus on your successes and forget the rest.”

Jeeny: “That’s not funny, Jack. That’s wisdom.”

Jack: “It’s naïve. Forgetting failure doesn’t build self-esteem — it builds delusion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe forgetting isn’t the right word. Maybe it means not carrying it everywhere you go.”

Jack: “Same thing. It’s pretending the scars don’t exist.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s choosing not to live inside them.”

Host: The wind slipped through the station, rustling the torn posters on the walls. One advertisement flapped weakly — a photo of a man smiling in a crisp suit, the words ‘Believe in Yourself’ beneath him, faded and peeling.

Jack: “You ever notice how that phrase—‘believe in yourself’—only shows up when you’re about to fail again?”

Jeeny: “Or when you need to be reminded you’re more than your last failure.”

Jack: “That’s easy for people who’ve succeeded to say. They can talk about forgetting failure because theirs are already buried under trophies.”

Jeeny: “You think success is what defines you?”

Jack: “It’s what the world sees. That’s what matters.”

Jeeny: “The world also sees illusions, Jack. Awards, money, titles — they’re just the reflection. What Waitley meant was about the foundation beneath that reflection — the part no one sees.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes caught the faint light from the vending machine behind them. For a moment, she looked fragile and fierce all at once, like someone holding a candle against the wind.

Jack: “You think I should just forget the screw-ups? The missed chances? The people I let down?”

Jeeny: “You don’t forget them. You learn from them. But you stop letting them define who you are.”

Jack: “That sounds like therapy talk.”

Jeeny: “It’s survival talk.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened. He looked down at his notebook, the pages covered with words — projects, debts, failures, apologies. He flipped to a clean page and just stared at the blankness, as if daring it to accuse him.

Jeeny: “You know what I think real success is?”

Jack: “Please, enlighten me.”

Jeeny: “It’s the ability to remember the good without the bad poisoning it. That’s real strength. Most people can’t do that. They replay their failures like a broken song.”

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. Just hit delete.”

Jeeny: “No. Hit pause. Look at it, learn, then move on.”

Host: A faint hum filled the station — the echo of an approaching freight train somewhere far down the line. Its slow rhythm seemed to sync with their conversation, each word landing between the low, distant thuds of steel and motion.

Jack: “You ever wonder if focusing on success just makes you arrogant? Like, what if forgetting your failures is the first step to repeating them?”

Jeeny: “That’s not arrogance — that’s balance. Arrogance is when you deny failure. Strength is when you own it but don’t live there.”

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never been trapped by your past.”

Jeeny: “I was. For years. Until I realized I was letting ghosts write my story. You can’t build a future while reading old pages.”

Jack: “And you think remembering the good helps with that?”

Jeeny: “It does. Because gratitude rewires pain. It reminds you that even in your worst days, you didn’t lose everything.”

Host: She took a sip of her coffee and winced at the bitterness. Her breath came out in a soft cloud that vanished instantly — like every fleeting success she spoke of.

Jack: “Funny thing is, failure feels more real than success. It stays longer, digs deeper.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it wants to teach you something. But you can’t stay in the classroom forever.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those motivational speakers I used to mock.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are, still listening.”

Host: The clock above them ticked past midnight. The station lights flickered once, then steadied. Somewhere down the tracks, a train horn blew — long, low, and lonely.

Jack: “You think self-esteem can really come from ignoring the negatives?”

Jeeny: “No. It comes from seeing them, but not surrendering to them. Think of it like flying — you can’t lift off if you keep staring at the ground.”

Jack: “So what, I just rewrite my failures into lessons and call myself healed?”

Jeeny: “No. You rewrite your story. You stop giving your failures the main role.”

Host: Jack looked at her, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth — hesitant, disbelieving, but human. The kind of smile that carried both cynicism and the tiniest spark of hope.

Jack: “You know, you almost sound like you believe in people.”

Jeeny: “I do. Especially the broken ones. They’re the ones who learn how to build stronger.”

Jack: “You think I can do that?”

Jeeny: “I think you already started the moment you stopped pretending you couldn’t.”

Host: Silence settled again. The lights dimmed as another train approached, its headlights cutting through the fog like a promise.

Jack: “You ever think maybe Waitley was wrong? Maybe we need our failures — to stay humble, to remember what we’ve lost?”

Jeeny: “No. We need our failures to know we’re human. But our self-worth can’t depend on them. Self-esteem grows where gratitude lives, not regret.”

Host: The train thundered past, its wind whipping Jeeny’s hair into motion. Papers flew from Jack’s notebook — fragments of words, numbers, things once important — scattering across the platform.

Jeeny: “Let them go, Jack. They’ve done their part.”

Host: He didn’t move at first. Then slowly, almost reluctantly, he stood and watched the pages drift down the track. His eyes followed them until they were gone.

Jack: “You think this is what healing looks like? Losing the record of everything that hurt you?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s remembering you survived.”

Host: Her words hung in the cold air, shimmering like something alive. Jack closed his notebook, the last clean page still waiting — empty, untouched, full of possibility.

The station clock struck twelve-thirty. The world outside was quiet, and in that stillness, something inside Jack loosened — not forgotten, not erased, but finally forgiven.

He looked at Jeeny and smiled — a small, genuine thing, fragile but real.

Jeeny smiled back.

And in that fragile exchange — brief, imperfect, human — the wisdom of Denis Waitley lived:
that self-esteem is not built by erasing the past,
but by finally choosing which parts of it deserve to stay.