A while back, I asked a question on Facebook:
“What therapy words do you think are overused or society is obsessed with today?”
The responses were many; Trauma. Triggered. Narcissist. Gaslighting. Boundaries. Toxic. Abuse. Invalidating. Self-care. Anxiety. Depression. Holding space. Nervous system.
One person simply wrote, “Triggered.”
Someone else joked that he needed to go “hold space” for himself after reading such a triggering thread.
I laughed.
But underneath the humor was something I think is worth taking seriously.
The people responding weren’t arguing that these words describe things that aren’t real. Trauma is real. Gaslighting happens. Some people are narcissistic. Boundaries are necessary. People get triggered. Relationships can be toxic and people can absolutely be abusive.
We developed language for these experiences because we needed it.
The problem isn’t that the words exist or that we use them in everyday language.
The problem is what happens when good words become shortcuts that keep us from having difficult conversations.
Take the word “triggered.”
Originally, identifying a trigger could help someone understand why a particular experience produced a response that seemed disproportionate to what was happening in the moment. That’s useful information. If I understand that something triggers a strong emotional reaction in me, I can become curious about why it happens and learn how to respond differently. In other words, my trigger was a clue for me to begin using a new behavior that better reflected who I wanted to become.
But somewhere along the way, “That triggers me” sometimes became a demand placed on everyone else.
You need to stop doing that because it triggers me.
Maybe they should, and maybe I need to develop the ability to encounter that trigger without allowing it to control me. Even if they should, I need to recognize my responsibility for my behaviors regardless of my triggers. Triggers don’t remove responsibility.
That reality requires a conversation. The word shouldn’t end it.
We’ve done the same thing with boundaries.
Healthy boundaries are an important part of healthy relationships. There are absolutely times when we need to limit someone’s access to us, say no, establish expectations, or decide what behavior we will and won’t participate in.
But a boundary isn’t a tool for controlling someone else.
“You can’t talk to me that way” might be an expression of what you need in a relationship, but the actual boundary is about what you will do if the behavior continues. You don’t get to control whether another adult raises their voice. You get to decide whether you’re going to remain in the conversation when they do.
There’s a difference.
I’ve watched people call demands boundaries because “boundary” sounds healthier than “I want you to do what I want.”
I’ve watched people label disagreement as invalidation.
I’ve watched selfishness get dressed up as self-care.
I’ve watched people call someone toxic because that person expects accountability from them.
And, of course, there’s narcissist.
Apparently, narcissists are everywhere.
They’re our ex-spouses, our bosses, our parents, our pastors, our friends, and probably the person who took too long ordering coffee this morning.
Sometimes the label fits.
Other times, the person was selfish.
Or immature.
Or insensitive.
Or controlling.
Or they hurt us.
Or they simply didn’t do what we wanted them to do.
Those things aren’t interchangeable.
Words lose usefulness when we make them mean everything.
There’s another problem, though, that I think concerns me even more.
Therapy language can give us the ability to make our interpretation of an event sound like an objective fact.
There’s a significant difference between saying, “When you said that, I felt dismissed,” and saying, “You invalidated me.”
One describes my experience.
The other makes a judgment about your behavior.
“I felt overwhelmed during that conversation” is different from “You made me feel unsafe.”
“I think you were dishonest with me” is different from “You’re gaslighting me.”
“I need some time away from this relationship” is different from “I’m setting a boundary because you’re toxic.”
The second version in each example carries authority.
It sounds clinical.
It sounds settled.
It sounds as though the diagnosis has already been made and the case is closed.
And once I’ve diagnosed you, I don’t have to be curious about you anymore.
That’s where I think therapeutic language can become especially dangerous.
Healthy relationships require curiosity.
They require us to consider the possibility that we misunderstood something. They require us to listen to another person’s experience even when it contradicts our own. They require us to tolerate the uncomfortable possibility that we contributed to the problem we’re discussing.
Good therapy does the same thing.
Therapy isn’t supposed to give us increasingly sophisticated language for explaining why everyone else is the problem.
It should help us understand ourselves more accurately.
Sometimes that means recognizing abuse and leaving.
Sometimes it means establishing a boundary.
Sometimes it means acknowledging trauma.
Sometimes it means realizing someone really has been manipulating us.
And sometimes it means recognizing that we were wrong.
Sometimes we’re the selfish one.
Sometimes we’re the difficult person.
Sometimes the feedback we don’t like is accurate.
Sometimes the person making us uncomfortable is telling us something we desperately need to hear.
Therapeutic language should help us navigate those possibilities. It shouldn’t protect us from them.
This is one of the great ironies of therapy language becoming mainstream. We have more words than ever for describing our emotional experiences, but having more words doesn’t automatically make us more emotionally healthy.
You can know every attachment style and still treat people terribly.
You can understand your trauma and refuse to take responsibility for how you treat others.
You can talk endlessly about boundaries while trying to control everyone around you.
You can identify every trigger you have and never develop a single coping skill.
You can recognize narcissistic behavior in everyone you’ve ever dated and never ask why every failed relationship seems to have one person in common.
Language isn’t growth.
At its best, language gives us tools for growth.
That’s an important distinction.
When a word helps us understand something more clearly, it is doing its job. When it helps us ask better questions, communicate our experience, recognize unhealthy patterns, or decide what needs to change, it can be incredibly valuable.
But when a word allows us to stop examining ourselves, dismiss another person, or declare the conversation finished before it has really begun, something has gone wrong.
Maybe one of the simplest tests for our therapeutic language is this:
Does this word make me more curious or more certain?
Does it help me understand what happened, or does it simply tell me who’s to blame?
Does it help me take responsibility for what belongs to me, or does it conveniently place responsibility everywhere else?
Those can be uncomfortable questions.
Which, considering everything we’ve been talking about lately, might be exactly why we need to ask them.
Good language should increase clarity.
It should also increase accountability.
If the language we’re using consistently gives us less responsibility, fewer difficult conversations, and more reasons why everyone else needs to change, perhaps the problem isn’t therapy.
Perhaps it’s what we’ve learned to do with its words.
Choose wisely.
