My therapist said one word that changed everything; stop calling yourself ‘broken

On ordinary days, language flows around us like background music, but those words, the labels we pick up, accept, or resist, shape every glance, every gut feeling, every interaction. Linguistic labeling is the silent architect of my daily lived experience and, I suspect, yours too.

I wake up and stare in the mirror. The mind recalls, unbidden, the words I’ve heard about myself: “resilient,” “complicated,” sometimes “too much.” Before any coffee, I am already in quiet negotiation with labels. In school, I was the “quiet creative,” or “the troublemaker,” depending on who told it. At work now, am I “the voice of reason,” “the angry one,” or simply “Simone, who feels too much?” These labels, spoken, or implied, follow me from room to room. They shape how I’m perceived and how I see myself sometimes providing comfort, more often boxing me in. On a day-to-day basis, they determine who is interrupted, who is encouraged, who gets the benefit of the doubt.

Science backs this up. Studies show that labels aren’t just fleeting names; the brain internalizes them, folding new experiences into preexisting categories. The “label-feedback hypothesis” suggests even a casual name (“helper,” “problematic,” “ordinary”) modifies how I, or others, interpret my actions in real time. For example, when I mess up a project, if I’m already labelled “reliable,” colleagues offer support, understanding it as a rare slip. If “careless,” the same mistake confirms their expectation. This is not just happening at work, but in relationships, family, and community spaces.

Here’s the twist; sometimes, labeling myself changes my day far more than what anyone else says. When I’m feeling anxious, or angry and I name it (“I’m overwhelmed right now”), science shows my amygdala (the emotional center) actually calms down. This is the hidden self-care in giving voice to what’s hard: it helps me process, reframe, and move through.

Living under labels tests my sense of self. Some I embrace with pride: “Jamaican,” “writer,” “community builder.” Others I fight, or try to rewrite: “fragile,” “angry Black woman,” “difficult.” There’s a cost to pushing against these inherited scripts. Some days, I’m tired of fighting for nuance; it’s easier to shrink to the contour of the nearest label, even if it doesn’t quite fit. Language also offers tools; a chance to claim person-first, or identity-first forms when I need them. “Simone living with anxiety” feels gentler, truer, on hard mornings than “anxious person.” I notice, too, that labels change based on race, gender, class. I get called “articulate” for saying what a colleague said two minutes ago. These micro-labels accumulate, and with them, the emotional labour of redefining oneself daily.

This is not just my story; it’s all of ours. When a friend describes herself as “Just a mom,” or a student is forever “The quiet one,” I see the weight. As a writer and community educator, my job is to build conversations that decode and defang these labels. I try to model transparency, saying aloud, “This word stings; why do we use it?” or “What other names could we choose here?” When colleagues, or community members challenge the words I choose, I listen, concede, adapt. The real work is communal; the more we unpack the emotional punch of language, the more space we make for people to show up whole.

What does this look like, practically? It’s me pausing before I speak, especially about someone else’s struggle, or success. It’s checking in with myself when a label hurts, and remembering I have a say in what sticks. It’s inviting readers (maybe you) to question, with compassion, the words handed to you and the ones you hand to others.

Linguistic labeling is as present on a Tuesday at the grocery store as it is in the headlines. The words we carry, and the courage to rewrite them together, shape not just stories, but lives.