When I was younger, I was terrified to express anger because it

Host: The recording studio was dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of the control board. The air hummed with the lingering vibration of sound — a guitar string still trembling, a faint echo of the last chord. It was the kind of silence that comes not after noise, but after confession.

On one side of the glass, Jeeny sat at the piano, her fingers still hovering over the keys, her eyes lowered, lashes trembling. Across the room, Jack leaned against the wall, arms folded, his gray eyes watching her through the reflection, not the glass — giving her space, but not distance.

Between them, written on a scrap of paper taped to the mixing console, were the words:
“When I was younger, I was terrified to express anger because it would often kick-start a horrible reaction in the men in my life. So I bit my tongue. I was left to painstakingly deal with the aftermath of my avoidance later in life, in therapy or through the lyrics of my songs.” — Alanis Morissette.

Jeeny: (softly) “When I read that, I felt like someone had broken into my head and left a note of apology.”

Jack: (quietly) “You mean it feels familiar.”

Jeeny: “Too familiar. The idea that women have to shrink their rage just to stay safe. To stay ‘likable.’”

Jack: “You make it sound like survival.”

Jeeny: (looking up) “It is survival, Jack. Every girl learns early that anger is a dangerous currency — and that men spend it differently.”

Host: The light from the console flickered across her face, painting her features in alternating tones of gold and shadow — the emotional rhythm of someone who’s learning to unbury what she once buried too deep.

Jack: “So what do you do with it now? All that anger you bit back?”

Jeeny: (a small smile) “I write. Like Alanis said. Or I sing. Or I scream in melody. It’s safer when it rhymes.”

Jack: “And does that help?”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t erase it. But it gives it shape. That’s something.”

Host: He moved closer, the floorboards creaking under his weight. The air between them thickened — not with tension, but with the shared gravity of honesty.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always envied that. The way music lets you say the things you’d never survive saying in a room full of people.”

Jeeny: “That’s because songs forgive you faster than people do.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe songs don’t interrupt.”

Jeeny: (laughing quietly) “That too.”

Host: She turned back to the piano, her hands pressing a few tentative keys — soft, hesitant chords that hung in the air like ghosts.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how many women’s voices went unheard just because someone couldn’t stand the sound of their truth?”

Jack: “Yeah. I think about it more than I used to.”

Jeeny: “It’s strange, though. When I finally let myself feel anger, I realized it wasn’t fire — it was grief. Just years of swallowing my own voice.”

Jack: “And therapy?”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Therapy’s just where you learn the language for what silence cost you.”

Host: The console lights blinked — red, then green, then steady blue. Outside, thunder rolled distantly, as if the sky was lending percussion to the conversation.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. When men get angry, people call it passion. When women do, it’s drama.”

Jeeny: “And when women don’t, it’s weakness. It’s a rigged game either way.”

Jack: “So how do you win?”

Jeeny: “You don’t. You stop playing.”

Host: She pressed another chord — this time stronger, richer, like the sound of a boundary reclaiming its echo.

Jack: (after a pause) “You said you sang your anger. What did it sound like?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Like honesty with reverb.”

Jack: “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now it sounds quieter, but truer. Anger changes shape when you stop being afraid of it. It becomes… clarity.”

Host: The storm outside had grown closer. The rain began to patter against the windows, each drop syncing with the rhythm of her playing. The sound was alive — steady, patient, cleansing.

Jack: “I guess I’ve spent my life on the other end of that. Being the man who mistakes silence for peace.”

Jeeny: “And what do you think now?”

Jack: (after a long breath) “That silence isn’t peace. It’s just the quiet before the reckoning.”

Host: She stopped playing, turned toward him, her expression softened but unflinching.

Jeeny: “Do you want to know what the reckoning feels like?”

Jack: “Tell me.”

Jeeny: “It feels like finally saying everything you were told to swallow — and realizing it doesn’t destroy you. It just makes room for your lungs again.”

Host: The words hung between them, raw and luminous, the way truth always does when it’s spoken for the first time instead of whispered in dreams.

Jack: “You know, there’s something sacred about that. Turning what hurt you into harmony.”

Jeeny: “Yeah. That’s what healing sounds like.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “So maybe that’s what Alanis meant. That therapy and songwriting aren’t opposites — they’re both just ways to stop apologizing for being human.”

Jeeny: “And ways to finally stop biting your tongue.”

Host: The lightning flashed — bright, brief, white against the windowpane. The thunder followed, low and honest, echoing her truth back to her.

Jeeny: (softly, almost to herself) “When I was younger, I thought anger was dangerous. But now I know — the danger wasn’t in the feeling. It was in the silence that followed.”

Host: She pressed one final chord — deep, resonant, unresolved. The kind of note that doesn’t end, but lingers. Jack stood still, listening, letting it fill the room — not just sound, but meaning.

He finally spoke, barely above a whisper:

Jack: “That’s not just a song, Jeeny. That’s an exorcism.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then, the two of them small within the vast studio, surrounded by instruments and echoes. The storm outside raged, then slowly softened, its rhythm matching hers.

And as the last note faded, Alanis Morissette’s truth remained like a pulse beneath the silence:

That the voice you repress becomes the one that haunts you.
That anger, when denied, poisons — but when spoken, purifies.
And that the bravest thing a woman can do
is to sing the words she once swallowed
and call it healing.