The Weight of Words

The Weight of Words

How language shapes what we hear, and why naming isn’t always neutral.

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“I just don’t want to be labeled,” is an all-too-familiar sentiment.

In therapy, we come to heal, unravel existential dilemmas, and navigate the emotional turbulence of our inner lives—all while welcoming a path forward from the chaos.

We come to therapy for healing. So what is a diagnosis—a clinical label, a stigma, or a way forward?

A diagnosis can leave us feeling naked in our vulnerability. It can make us feel misunderstood, unseen, or unacknowledged. It can stir up deeply rooted insecurities—and just as easily, it can devastate our sense of self-worth.

That's one side of the coin—and inextricable from it, there's another:

A diagnosis can also offer an explanation for the pain we begrudgingly carry—like a suitcase full of bricks. Like a set of symptoms that mirror conditions we’re diagnosed with every day: seasonal allergies, a cold, the flu. Surely, our everyday maladies don’t define us; they name our experience and help guide us toward the proper course of treatment.

Yet it makes sense that we don't naturally welcome a clinical diagnosis with open arms. The words we use to convey intention matter a great deal—after all, they influence how a message is received. A simple but, for example, can shift the tone of even the most well-intentioned concern: “I think you're doing great, but it needs some work.”

See what I did there? Naturally, the former (“you’re doing great”) becomes disposable, and the latter is understood as the absolute truth. Surely, it must need some work. The speaker’s intention may be to inspire confidence, but the result lands as a quiet critique—a reminder that we’ll never quite get it right.

And if that’s the bottom rung of the proverbial ladder when it comes to the mindful use of language and intention, how do we—as clinicians, clients, fellow human beings—begin to broach the topic of diagnosis?

Take, for example, the word hypomania. It describes symptoms like pressured speech, mildly racing thoughts, and an elated mood. Sometimes it stands on its own; other times, it follows or precedes a depressive episode. Without meeting the criteria for clinical mania, it doesn’t cross the threshold into the dangerous—and may not fit neatly into a diagnostic category. So in this case, would it—or would it not—be helpful to name the experience as a symptom, or as part of a larger mental health diagnosis?

From a strength-based, holistic approach, it's important to refrain from reducing the complexity of our emotional experience to a diagnosis. We are more than that.

But from a cognitive-behavioral perspective, giving the experience a name helps cognitively restructure the thought: “It doesn’t define me—it’s what I experience.”

A diagnosis can help. Or a diagnosis can hurt.

It can either shut us, as observers, out of the experience—or deepen our understanding of it.

Both sides of the debate are equally valid, and as with anything else in life—the answer depends on which side of the coin we're looking at.

In the words of a wise old mentor: "take what you need and leave the rest."

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Thanks for reading. May you continue exploring the space between where you are and who you're becoming, with care and curiosity. Because healing isn't just clinical—it's deeply human.

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