Sacred Cows
Field Note No. 1
There are words we hear so often we stop hearing them.
They become part of the wallpaper.
They pass from one conversation to the next, carrying the quiet authority of common sense.
Just let it go.
You need better coping strategies.
That’s your trauma response.
Set healthier boundaries.
Few of us pause.
Few of us ask.
Because everyone already knows what they mean.
Or do we?
I’ve spent a lifetime listening.
Listening as a therapist.
Listening as a veteran.
Listening as someone who has learned that the deepest truths about people rarely arrive with fanfare.
They arrive quietly, disguised as ordinary conversations.
I think that’s why language fascinates me.
Not because I’m a grammar purist.
Not because I enjoy arguing over definitions.
Because words build worlds.
The language we choose becomes the lens through which we understand ourselves, one another, and the lives we’re trying to make sense of.
Over the years, I’ve noticed something.
Often, a phrase begins as a careful observation.
Then it becomes shorthand.
Eventually it becomes something we repeat without asking whether it still describes the reality it was meant to describe.
That’s how sacred cows are born.
Not because an idea is wrong.
Because it has become so familiar that questioning it feels almost unnecessary.
Or worse…
Almost forbidden.
This series is my attempt to ask those forgotten questions.
Not to dismantle psychology.
Not to dismiss philosophy.
Not to mock popular ideas.
Certainly not to diminish the comfort many people have found in them.
The best ideas deserve our respect.
They also deserve our curiosity.
Especially when the words begin carrying more weight than they were ever meant to bear.
One of the peculiarities—and, at times, the frustrations—of living with a neurodiverse mind is that language has always mattered to me.
When a word doesn’t quite fit, I notice.
When a phrase becomes redundant, I notice.
When a metaphor quietly slips into the place of an explanation, I notice.
Not because I’m looking for flaws.
Not because I enjoy being contrary.
Because my mind keeps asking a simple question:
Does this language still describe reality?
That question has followed me for years.
Into the therapy room.
Into philosophy.
Into conversations about soul injury, trauma, grief, resilience, and healing.
It has taught me that precision is not the enemy of compassion.
It is one of compassion’s greatest allies.
Because people deserve language that illuminates rather than obscures.
Language that opens possibilities instead of closing them.
Language that is faithful to the complexity of being human.
These Field Notes are simply observations from the trail.
We’ll slow down.
We’ll look again at words we’ve almost stopped seeing.
Some will become stronger under examination.
Others may quietly ask to be refined.
A few may reveal that we’ve mistaken familiarity for truth.
That’s not failure.
It’s how wisdom grows.
Because words build worlds.
And if we’re going to live in those worlds, they ought to be built with care.
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