We're taught to be ashamed of confusion, anger, fear and sadness

Host: The dawn was slow, grey, and cold, the kind that creeps over the city like a secret it doesn’t want to share. The streets were empty, slick with last night’s rain, and the air smelled faintly of smoke and coffee.

Inside a dim, early-morning café, the lights were low, the music a soft murmur of a forgotten jazz tune. Steam rose from a metal kettle behind the counter, curling in the faint light of a single lamp.

Jack sat by the window, his hands wrapped around a chipped ceramic mug. His grey eyes were distant, as though watching something beyond the glass — something only he could see.

Jeeny entered, her coat still damp, her dark hair clinging to her cheeks. She paused, glancing at him — then smiled, faintly, as if she’d been waiting for this moment.

The morning felt like an exhale, uncertain, suspended between night and day.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how quiet it gets at this hour? Like the world’s too tired to lie for a while.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just resting before it starts pretending again.”

Host: She laughed, softly — a small, real sound that cut through the haze.

Jeeny: “I read something last night. Alanis Morissette said, ‘We’re taught to be ashamed of confusion, anger, fear, and sadness — and to me they’re of equal value to happiness, excitement, and inspiration.’”

Jack: “Equal value, huh? Sounds poetic. But in the real world, nobody wants to deal with that mess.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem. We’ve been told to hide half of what makes us human. Like only the pretty feelings deserve sunlight.”

Jack: “You can’t blame people for wanting to feel good. No one wakes up hoping to drown in their own misery.”

Jeeny: “But misery’s part of being alive, Jack. The pain, the confusion — they teach us something happiness never can.”

Jack: “Yeah? Tell that to someone who’s lost everything. I’ve seen people so broken they couldn’t even remember what happiness felt like. You gonna tell them their pain has equal value?”

Host: His voice was low, but it carried, rough with something like memory. The rain had stopped, but the windows were still wet, blurring the light into a muted glow.

Jeeny: “Yes. Because that’s how they know they’re still human. Pain doesn’t mean you’ve failed at life, Jack. It means you’ve lived through it.”

Jack: “Sounds nice on paper. But society doesn’t care about your pain. You show anger in public — you’re labeled unstable. You show fear — you’re weak. You show sadness — they tell you to toughen up. You smile — they like you. That’s how the game works.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the game’s wrong.”

Host: She leaned forward now, her eyes steady, her voice soft but firm, like someone trying to reach a wound without making it worse.

Jeeny: “Why should emotions be ranked like medals? Happiness at the top, sadness at the bottom? The truth is, we learn more from pain than we ever do from joy. You only understand love after you’ve lost it. You only find peace after you’ve tasted fear.”

Jack: “You sound like a philosopher trying to romanticize suffering.”

Jeeny: “No — I’m saying suffering has meaning. Look at Van Gogh. His sadness, his madness — they didn’t destroy his art, they made it. Without that darkness, there’d be no Starry Night.”

Jack: “And he still died alone.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but what he left behind gave others hope. That’s the strange beauty of pain — it can still give light even after it burns you.”

Host: The sun was starting to rise, faint threads of gold weaving through the grey. It touched their faces, but neither of them moved.

Jack: “You think sadness can be as valuable as joy. But sadness kills people, Jeeny. Depression, loneliness — they eat at you. Not everyone makes it to the other side with a painting or a poem.”

Jeeny: “That’s why we need to stop making people ashamed of feeling them. When you suppress your sadness, it turns into something worse. When you hide your anger, it festers. But when you let it breathe — when you face it — that’s when it loses its poison.”

Jack: “So what, we should all just cry in public and call it enlightenment?”

Jeeny: “Maybe we should. Maybe if we did, people wouldn’t feel so alone in it.”

Host: Jack smirked, but it wasn’t cruel. It was the kind of smile people wear when they want to believe, but can’t quite get there.

Jack: “You’ve always had this… faith. In feelings, in people, in redemption. But not everything broken can be mended by crying it out.”

Jeeny: “No. But it can start there. When you admit you’re lost, that’s when you start finding direction again.”

Jack: “Sounds like therapy talk.”

Jeeny: “Maybe therapy’s just honesty with structure.”

Host: The light shifted, cutting across the table, catching the faint steam of their cups. A truck passed outside, splashing through a puddle, the sound distant but grounding — a reminder that the world kept moving, indifferent to their words.

Jack: “When I was younger,” he began, staring at the coffee, “I was told not to cry. My father said tears make you weak. I believed him. So I learned to swallow it all. The fear. The confusion. Everything. Until one day, I couldn’t feel anything at all. Not anger. Not joy. Nothing.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly what Alanis meant, Jack. When you’re taught to be ashamed of your pain, you start losing your ability to feel anything real. You become numb.”

Jack: “Maybe numbness is safer.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s emptiness pretending to be peace.”

Host: Her words hung, heavy, then dissolved into the soft hiss of the coffee machine. Jack’s fingers trembled slightly as he lifted his cup, watching the ripple of the dark liquid.

Jeeny: “Anger isn’t evil, Jack. It’s just grief that hasn’t found its voice yet. Fear isn’t weakness — it’s the body’s way of saying ‘be careful.’ Confusion is curiosity trying to grow. Sadness is love refusing to die. Why would you want to be rid of that?”

Jack: “Because it hurts, Jeeny. It hurts too damn much.”

Jeeny: “So does healing.”

Host: The light now was stronger, flooding the café with a faint golden warmth. Dust floated in it, like tiny ghosts of old mornings.

Jack sighed, his shoulders slumping, his mask finally cracking.

Jack: “You ever wonder why we spend so much time pretending we’re fine? It’s like everyone’s part of some unspoken pact — smile, or you’ll make people uncomfortable.”

Jeeny: “Because we’ve confused comfort with happiness. We’d rather be numb together than honest alone.”

Host: For a moment, neither of them spoke. Outside, the city began to wake — the sound of cars, voices, and the first birdsong of the day.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe all those things — the sadness, the fear — they’re not enemies. Maybe they’re… signals. Reminders.”

Jeeny: “They are. Every emotion is a conversation your soul’s trying to have with you.”

Jack: “And if you stop listening?”

Jeeny: “Then you stop living.”

Host: A soft silence settled again — the kind that feels like understanding, not distance.

Jack looked at her, a small, real smile forming — not because he was happy, but because he finally wasn’t pretending.

Jack: “So, confusion, anger, sadness — they belong, too.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Just as much as laughter or love. The light’s only beautiful because the dark exists.”

Host: The sun finally broke through the clouds, a full beam flooding the café. Jeeny closed her eyes, basking in it. Jack watched her — and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t look away.

The morning was no longer cold. It was alive — messy, imperfect, full of every feeling the heart could carry.

And for a brief, fragile moment, they both understood — that to feel everything, even the pain, was not a flaw of being human.

It was the proof of it.