We need to change the culture of this topic and make it OK to

Host: The rain was a steady whisper on the windowpane, a kind of sad rhythm that matched the tension in the small community hall. Rows of empty chairs stood in silent formation, facing a single podium and a poster pinned to the wall — “Mental Health Awareness Night.” The letters were fading, the edges of the paper curling slightly from humidity.

A single lightbulb hung from the ceiling, flickering as if it too were uncertain about being here. In the back row, Jack sat hunched forward, his hands clasped, his eyes distant. Jeeny entered quietly, her umbrella dripping, her steps soft, but her presence bright — like a lantern in a room that had forgotten light.

Jeeny: “Luke Richardson once said, ‘We need to change the culture of this topic and make it OK to speak about mental health and suicide.’” She paused, letting the words rest in the air. “Do you believe we can, Jack?”

Jack: He gave a faint, bitter laugh. “Change the culture? We can’t even change a conversation, Jeeny. The moment you say ‘suicide,’ everyone shifts, everyone looks away. They’d rather talk about weather, or politics, or war — anything but the wars happening inside their own heads.”

Host: His voice was low, rough, like someone who’d spoken too little for too long. The room seemed to tighten around his words, holding its breath.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly why we have to keep talking. Silence doesn’t heal, Jack. It hides. It festers. People don’t die from sadness — they die from being alone in it.”

Jack: “And you think talking changes that? You think a hashtag or a poster on a wall makes people feel less broken? Come on, Jeeny. The world doesn’t want the truth — it wants the performance of caring.”

Host: A drop of rain slid down the glass, catching the light — a tiny mirror, reflecting both their faces. One hardened, one hopeful.

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. It’s not the world that needs to listen first — it’s us. The ones who dare to start. The ones who refuse to pretend everything’s fine. Every time someone says, ‘I’m not okay,’ and another person doesn’t flinch, that’s a revolution in itself.”

Jack: “Revolution? You think talking is revolution? People suffer, Jeeny. They bleed in silence, and when they finally speak, they’re told to man up, to get over it, to try harder. You call that culture? That’s conditioning — and it’s stronger than any awareness campaign.”

Jeeny: “And yet… even conditioning can be unlearned. Look at what’s happened with PTSD in soldiers. There was a time when they called it cowardice, Jack — when men were shot for what we now call trauma. And we changed that. Because people spoke. Because silence became unacceptable.”

Host: The light above them buzzed, casting a trembling halo around Jeeny. Her eyes burned with quiet fire, her hands clenched as though she were holding the weight of everyone too afraid to speak.

Jack: “That’s history, Jeeny. People change words, not hearts. You can rename pain, but it doesn’t make it bearable.”

Jeeny: “It makes it speakable, Jack. And that’s the first step. If pain has a language, it can have a listener.”

Host: A long silence followed. The rain softened to a gentle patter, like the world itself was listening.

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s never been on the edge.”

Jeeny: quietly “You’re wrong.”

Host: Jack looked up, the sharpness in his eyes faltering. Jeeny’s face was still, but her voice was like glass — fragile, yet clear.

Jeeny: “When my father died, I didn’t leave the house for weeks. People said all the right things — ‘He’s in a better place,’ ‘You’ll move on.’ But no one said, ‘Tell me what it feels like to not want to live today.’ That’s what we need to change, Jack. We need to make it safe to tell the truth.”

Jack: “And what did you do?”

Jeeny: “I started talking. To a therapist, to friends, to strangers online. Some of them listened, some of them didn’t. But every time someone answered, every time they said ‘me too,’ the world got a little less lonely.”

Host: The rain stopped completely now, leaving behind a stillness so thick it felt like the room was holding its own heartbeat. Jack’s eyes were wet, not with tears, but with that tired look of someone who’d been holding the dam closed too long.

Jack: “You make it sound easy. But it’s not. Talking doesn’t fix the void.”

Jeeny: “No. But it names it. And what we can name, we can face. The void only wins when it stays silent.”

Host: Jack’s hand moved slowly, his fingers tracing the grain of the wooden bench. The air felt different now — less heavy, more alive, like something unspoken had finally been acknowledged.

Jack: “You really think the culture can change?”

Jeeny: “It already is, Jack. We just don’t see it because we’re still in the middle of it. Schools teach about mental health now. People post, share, cry openly. Celebrities admit therapy. Ten years ago, that was unthinkable. We’re learning to say what we once buried.”

Jack: “But there’s still so much stigma.”

Jeeny: “Of course. Change is slow, but silence is slower. And silence kills.”

Host: A door creaked somewhere in the hall, the echo like a ghost departing. The posters on the wall fluttered from a draft, as if applauding something unseen. Jack stood, walked to the podium, and placed his hand on it — his expression a strange mix of fear and resolve.

Jack: “You think it would matter… if I said something? My story?”

Jeeny: “It might save someone you’ll never meet.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like a benediction. Jack looked at the microphone, its cord coiled like a nervous thought, and for the first time, he smiled — not fully, not confidently, but honestly.

Jack: “Then maybe I’ll start there. Maybe that’s my part.”

Jeeny: “That’s all anyone can do. Speak. Be heard. Remind others they’re not alone in the dark.”

Host: The lightbulb flickered once more, and then steadied, its glow soft and warm. Outside, the clouds broke, and a pale moon emerged, casting silver across the wet streets.

Jack took the microphone, cleared his throat, and breathed — deeply, like someone surfacing after a long dive.

Jeeny watched, her eyes glistening, her hands folded like a prayer.

Jack: quietly “My name is Jack… and I’ve been silent for too long.”

Host: The words echoed, simple yet sacred, breaking a spell that had lasted years. The hall seemed to brighten, the air itself lighter.

And as the night deepened, the two of them stood — one speaking, one listening — while the world outside shifted, ever so slightly, toward understanding.

Because in that small room, under a flickering light, the culture had already begun to change — not with laws, not with campaigns, but with courage.
With the simple, human act of saying what hurts, and hearing it answered.