The Language We Live In
Before the words. . .
there's this.
Here’s something I haven’t done in a really long time.
Sitting on my couch, coffee in hand… and silence.
This used to be an every morning thing. I would start slowly. Thoughtfully. Taking in my surroundings while also trying to make sense of whatever was going on internally—almost like I was translating myself before stepping out into the world.
Because that’s what it felt like.
Translation.
Not just of my own thoughts… but of everything I had taken in the day before. Conversations. Tone. Expressions. The subtle ways people say things without actually saying them.
And the more I sat with it, the more I realized…
Language is a strange thing.
Not just the words themselves—but everything that comes with them.
The way we communicate who we are to the people around us.
The way we interpret what others are trying to say.
The way meaning somehow exists between us… even though it’s never fully guaranteed.
Our clothes.
Our music.
The way we keep our homes.
The way we speak when we’re comfortable… and when we’re not.
It all says something.
This is me.
And whether we realize it or not… we’re constantly putting that message out into the world.
This week, I saw it play out in two different ways.
Both moments were doing the same thing—trying to communicate expectations. Specifically, how someone wanted to be treated.
One came out sharp. A little aggressive. Even though it was paired with a smile, it didn’t feel like one. It created distance almost immediately. You could feel people pull back, unsure of how to receive it.
The other was just as clear—but steady. Firm without being harsh. It left room for the other person to understand, not just react. And instead of shutting things down, it actually built trust.
Same intention.
Completely different outcome.
And it made me realize something I hadn’t fully put words to before—
Language isn’t just what we say.
It’s something we practice.
The tone we take when we’re frustrated.
The way we soften our words… or sharpen them.
The jokes we make that aren’t really jokes.
The silence we choose when something actually matters.
None of it is random.
It’s patterned. Repeated. Learned.
Almost like a ritual.
Not the kind with candles and incense—
but the kind we don’t even realize we’re performing.
The way we show up, over and over again, eventually teaches people how to experience us.
What to expect from us.
What kind of connection is possible with us.
Later that day, I found myself in my garage.
It just needed to be seen.
When I started, there wasn’t even room to walk. Everything was piled on top of everything else—useful things, meaningful things… all of it just sitting there, indistinguishable from the rest.
And somewhere between moving things around and making space, I had this thought—
Maybe chaos isn’t always the presence of too much…
but the absence of separation.
Because nothing in that garage was useless.
It just needed to be seen.
Placed.
Distinguished.
And I couldn’t help but notice how easily that carries over.
Not just in our spaces…
but in the way we communicate.
The way we relate.
The way things either become clear… or quietly fall apart.
Because sometimes it’s not that something is wrong—
it’s that it’s never been made clear.
Never separated.
Never actually understood.
I’ve been reading lately—about language, about how meaning works, about how people have spent entire fields of study trying to understand how we communicate and why it matters so much.
And one thing keeps surfacing, in different ways—
It’s not enough to just say something.
It has to be received.
Understood.
Which makes me wonder…
What are we actually putting out into the world, day after day?
And just as much—
What are we willing to receive?
Are we speaking in a way that invites understanding…
or just assuming people will figure us out?
Are we clear…
or just familiar?
Because maybe the things we repeat—our tone, our patterns, the way we respond without thinking—
aren’t just habits.
Maybe they’re a kind of quiet ritual.
One that either builds connection…
or slowly teaches us how to live without it.
And I can’t help but wonder…
if being known was never meant to be complicated—
just practiced. 💛
I’m learning that clarity isn’t always about adding more… but seeing what’s already there.
