The Power of Words: What We Say to Get Help, and What We Say to Ourselves

Recently, I’ve found myself having to use very strong, very explicit language in order to get the medical intervention I needed.

Not dramatic language.

Not poetic language.

But crisis language.

The kind of words that make people sit up, take notice, and act.

It struck me how revealing that is.

There seems to be an unspoken rule in many systems: if your language isn’t serious enough, you won’t be taken seriously. If you don’t use the right trigger words,pain, risk, trauma, severity, your distress may be minimised, delayed, or politely parked.

And that made me think more deeply about the power of words, not just in moments of crisis, but in everyday life.

As a hypnotherapist, I use words all day, every day. Carefully. Intentionally. With awareness of how a single phrase can soften a nervous system… or tighten it. How one word can open possibility, while another quietly shuts it down.

This is something Peta Heskell explored beautifully in her article The Power of Words. She reminds us that words are not neutral. They don’t just describe experience, they create it. Language evokes physiological responses. Posture changes. Breathing shifts. Muscles tighten or release.

Words land in the body.

What stayed with me most from her writing is the idea that people attach deeply personal meaning to words. A word like “stress,” “anxiety,” or “confidence” might sound simple on the surface, but for the person hearing it, it carries years of memory, sensation, and emotion. When we repeat certain labels, especially to ourselves, we aren’t just naming something; we’re rehearsing it.

And yet, look at how casually we use big words now.

Trauma words for ordinary distress.

Crisis language for normal human struggle.

Harsh, absolute language when we’re simply tired, overwhelmed, or needing care.

That kind of language can be useful when it needs to be useful, as I experienced firsthand. But when it becomes our default inner dialogue, it can quietly keep the nervous system on high alert.

I also found myself reflecting on how much our cultural language has changed.

I was driving recently, listening to some Motown, songs full of peace, love, longing, romance. Then I switched on Radio 1. The contrast was stark. So much of the language now centres on bodies, performance, sex, consumption. Very little tenderness. Very little yearning. Very little softness.

It made me wonder:

Where did the words for love, devotion, and gentleness go?

And what happens to us when we stop using them?

Words shape not only how we ask for help, but how we relate to ourselves, to each other, and to the world. They influence how safe we feel. How hopeful we feel. How human we feel.

That’s why, in my work, I’m careful not to impose labels, not to rush to interpret, and not to assume meaning. Instead, I listen closely to the exact words a person uses because those words are already doing something inside them.

And it’s why I’m increasingly interested in the question: What would change if we chose our words more gently — especially when we speak to ourselves?

Not softer in a dismissive way.

But softer in a regulating, respectful, human way.

Because words can escalate…

but they can also soothe.

They can trap us in stories…

or help us rewrite them.

And sometimes, choosing different words is the very first step toward feeling differently at all.

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