How a Single Word Can Unstuck Us

On the power of language to shift how we see and feel about ourselves

When I was a grad student, I was terrified to start my first therapy sessions under supervision. The idea of sitting across from someone in pain and trying to help—effectively and ethically—felt like being thrown into deep water without a life vest.

After one particularly disheartening session, I was convinced I wasn’t cut out for this profession.

“I don’t know how to talk to them,” I said to my supervisor. “I don’t know how to ask the right questions. I feel like I can’t do this.”

He said, “Yet.”

I looked at him with confusion.

“You don’t know how to do it well—yet,” he explained. “You’re not great at asking questions—yet.”

It was such a small word, but it landed hard. While the way I talked to myself was ready to collapse my identity into one moment, “yet” reopened the timeline, inviting learning, change, and possibility back in.

My supervisor’s words reminded me that how we speak to ourselves is an act of construction. We’re building the story of who we believe we are.

Over the years, I’ve seen this truth again and again, both in myself and in my clients and students. The language we use shapes our inner world. It affects how we relate to our struggles. And it influences what we believe is possible.

When experience becomes identity.

Think about the way we talk about mental health: my anxiety, my depression, my loneliness. That little possessive word—my—carries a heavy weight. It suggests ownership. Permanence. It makes the experience sound like something fused to your identity, like a birthmark or blood type.

When someone says, “My anxiety has always been there,” or “She doesn’t understand my depression,” they’re reinforcing a sense of self.

When we’ve carried anxiety or depression for a long time, it’s easy to start gripping them tightly, as if they define us. Sometimes, other people reinforce this. We may have been told—directly or indirectly—that we’re broken, difficult, weak. Over time, we internalise those messages. The story becomes fixed.

And when that happens, change becomes harder. If pain becomes who we are, how can we ever set it down?

Every time we repeat a story—“I’m not a people person,” “I can’t handle pressure,” “I always mess things up”—we’re rehearsing. With each repetition, it sinks in deeper. The story hardens. The identity sticks.

This is how language becomes a loop. A groove. And the deeper the groove, the harder it is to build a new path.

But when we intentionally shift from “my anxiety” to “the anxiety,” we loosen the grip. We start to relate to our inner experiences not as who we are, but as things we’re having or experiences we’re witnessing. The relationship changes: it becomes more flexible and less sticky. With that shift comes perspective—and with perspective, a sense of agency.

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If, as a therapist, I say to a client who’s often silent in sessions, “You seem to have difficulty talking,” that may be a technically accurate observation, but it can imply that their behaviour is fixed or immovable.

But if I say, “Sometimes you talk more easily than at other times,” it does something different. It invites reflection without rigidity. It recognises the pattern and the exceptions. It says: this isn’t all of you; there is something to build on.

Words shape not just thoughts, but feelings and actions. Call yourself a failure, and your body often follows. Muscles tense. Shoulders slump. Your face mirrors that identity. The story becomes embodied.

That’s why we need to pay attention—not to play the overzealous inner editor, but to stay aware of the stories we’re rehearsing.

We all have the right—and the need—to understand our experiences, joyful or painful. But there’s a fine line between reflection and identification. Between processing emotion and being swallowed by it. Between exploring pain and being defined by it.

This is where language offers a kind of gentle unhooking. A way to stay close to our inner lives without being consumed by them. A chance to look at our experiences, rather than from them.

In a series of studies, psychologist Ethan Kross and his colleagues found that when people use third-person language to talk to themselves, referring to themselves by name or using pronouns, they cope with stress more effectively. They regulate emotions better and view future challenges as less threatening.

For instance, instead of saying, “Why am I feeling anxious?” I might say, “Why is Selda feeling anxious?” Or instead of saying, “I’m stuck and don’t know what I’m doing,” I’d say, “She is stuck and doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

It might feel odd at first, but it creates enough distance to think more clearly. It also helps prevent us from building an identity around a passing experience.

In another study, Igor Grossmann and colleagues asked participants to use third-person language when writing about the most significant experience of their day. Participants showed a notable increase in wise reasoning about interpersonal challenges—even after just one reflection. That matters, because when we’re emotionally entangled, whether in shame, anger, grief, or fear, our perspective collapses. We speak without thinking, act without foresight, and often spiral. And over time, we start to become the story.

Language is like a flashlight: it decides what we notice.

Every word we speak—every question, label, or passing thought—is like a flashlight. It decides what we notice, what comes into focus, and what stays hidden in the dark.

The words we choose highlight certain features of our experience, while letting others slip by, unexamined. They can either open us up to curiosity and change, or keep us locked inside old narratives.

Take a moment of self-doubt. One person might ask:
“Why am I so bad at this?”

Another might ask:
“What part of this am I finding hard?”

Same emotional tone, different spotlight.

The first question turns inward, shining harsh light on the self, flaw, failure, and deficiency. It frames the difficulty as a reflection of who you are. The second shifts the focus to the process. It’s less about identity and more about information. It invites understanding, not judgement. There is more room for possibility.

And that small shift in phrasing can redirect the path we take next.

Because the more intentionally we speak, especially to ourselves, the more deliberately we can steer our attention. And where attention goes, action follows. Over time, the words we reach for shape not just what we see, but who we become.

Language shapes our goals—and the actions that follow.

I see it all the time in my work with clients: the way we talk about our goals shapes how we move toward them—or don’t.

Many of us default to telling ourselves what not to do: “Don’t mess up.” “Stop being lazy.” “Don’t procrastinate.”

But the brain struggles with negatives. When you say, “Don’t drop the ball,” what image flashes in your mind? Dropping the ball. That’s the mental image you’ve summoned, even as you’re trying to avoid it.

This kind of language keeps us locked in the very patterns we’re trying to change. We get mentally fixated on the obstacles or failures we’re trying to avoid, making it harder to actually move toward progress.

So, I often ask my clients:

“You don’t want to procrastinate. What do you want to do?”

“You don’t want to sound resentful. How do you want to sound?”

There’s usually a pause, because they haven’t been speaking to themselves in those terms. But something shifts in that moment. It’s like turning a light toward a different wall in the room: suddenly, there’s something new to look at.

“I want to take one small step.”
“I want to speak with warmth.”
“I want to feel connected.”

With that, the mind has a destination, a direction to move toward, and a clearer image. And action becomes easier. It’s no longer about avoiding failure, but about actively pursuing something they desire.

Marketers have long understood this. Think about Nike’s iconic slogan: “Just Do It.” It’s concrete, energising, and vivid. You can see it and feel it. It’s about action, not avoidance. Now, imagine if it were: “Avoid Inactivity.” Technically the same message. But it’s vague, flat, and hard to picture.

The words that expand us.

In therapy, in life, in moments of doubt, how we talk to ourselves matters. Words can hurt, heal, limit, or liberate. And the way we use them can shape our sense of self more than we realise.

What my supervisor gave me that day was more than encouragement. He gave me a new lens: a new way of speaking to myself that allowed space for time, growth, and possibility.

One of the most profound shifts we can make, whether we’re growing or just trying to get through the day, is to choose language that doesn’t make us get rigidly attached to our experiences and that expands us.

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