“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never harm me.”
It’s one of those adages we all seemed to absorb in childhood, usually on a playground somewhere, spoken with trembling defiance to an audience of jeers. I suppose it was meant to signal inner strength, a kind of moral backbone that would not be broken by taunts. But looking back, I suspect it was the first in a long line of idioms that confused, if not quietly misled, our young and impressionable minds.
Yes, on its surface, it sounds like bravery, rising above the insult, ignoring the mockery. But more often than not, those words were spoken not as a battle cry, but as a shield. A defence mechanism muttered through tears, meant not to rebuke the bully so much as to console the bruised self: “You will get through this.” “It could be worse.” “At least your bones are still sound.”
I remember children saying it as they turned away, holding in something that ought to have been let out. And I remember, too, the odd silence that would often follow when those around didn’t quite know how to respond. As if the ritual of the phrase had absolved the harm.
Over time, most of us did grow wiser. We learned—sometimes slowly, sometimes painfully, that words can indeed hurt. That a sentence can lodge in the soul for years. That a single phrase, spoken in anger or indifference, can do more damage than any stone.
And yet, when I look around at what passes for public discourse today, I am struck by how much we’ve returned to the playground. The insults are cleverer now, perhaps, the platforms more expansive, but the harm is just as real. And the old myth still lingers, like a bad rhyme we never quite outgrew.
We forget that language does not merely describe the world, it creates it. It frames reality. It shapes memory. It signals who matters and who is invisible.
Some wounds are inflicted directly: the shouted slur, the cruel nickname, the accusatory label. But there are subtler forms, too. Words that patronise while appearing to praise. Words that generalise and flatten. Words that erase whole histories under the guise of neutrality.
Consider the teacher who describes one student as “spirited” and another, usually the darker-skinned one, as “disruptive.” The well-meaning colleague who remarks, “You’re so articulate,” without realising the implication. The social media post that laments “violence in our cities” but makes no mention of what drives the rage.
Language carries values, even when we don’t mean it to. Every phrase holds a posture of empathy or judgment, curiosity or control, solidarity or suspicion. And when repeated, these words don’t just hurt feelings. They shape systems.
There is also the violence of omission, the things that go unsaid. The loved one who never names your grief. The institution that erases your story from its report. The sermon that praises peace but never denounces injustice.
I have, to my regret, participated in all of this. I’ve used words as cover, as weapons, as retreats. I’ve allowed careless metaphors to slip by in lectures. I’ve interrupted, explained, corrected, when what was needed was simply to listen.
But I’ve also witnessed words restore dignity. A well-timed apology. A name pronounced with care. A note passed quietly across the table that says, “I see you.”
And this, I think, is the hope that remains: that if words can injure, they can also mend.
So in this next week, I invite you to become a student of your own speech:
- Reflect on the phrases you use often. Where did they come from? Whom do they centre, and whom do they exclude?
- Listen to how others speak, what kinds of stories are honoured, which are dismissed, and whose pain is named or ignored?
- Notice the words you do not say. Silence, too, is part of the vocabulary of injury.
Then, take a small step toward healing:
- Speak a word of care to someone whose voice is often overlooked.
- Rewrite a sentence you might normally use to include rather than flatten.
- Offer a gentle challenge to a phrase that wounds, even if spoken by someone you love.
The work is not to become perfect in our speech. It is to become aware, and then courageous.
Let us wield language not as armour or weapon, but as invitation. Let us speak in ways that honour complexity, affirm dignity, and call forth joy.
For if we are to live in a world less burdened by violence, we must begin with the words on our lips—and the silences we choose to break.
