Vocabulary & Vulnerability
My Complicated Relationship with Language
Vocabulary.
A word I once dreaded as a student, yet somehow now I find myself standing in front of my own students encouraging them to embrace “elevated vocabulary” and “vivid language.” The irony is not lost on me.
Recently, I thought: why don’t I try taking my own advice?
For years, I avoided using “big words” because I worried they would make me appear pretentious. I did not want others to perceive me as someone attempting to sound more intellectual than I actually was. But when I examined my relationship with vocabulary more closely, I realized the issue was not that I disliked these words; it was that I never fully internalized them.
Words existed, but they existed outside of me. I recognized them. I could define them. But I never truly inhabited them.
Teachers often instruct, “Use the new vocabulary words in your writing,” but as a student, that never felt natural. How could I incorporate a word I rarely heard spoken, or never used in conversation?
Vocabulary lived within textbooks, quizzes, novels, and poems, but seldom within everyday life.
Even now, I will encounter a word while reading and understand its meaning through context, yet not know how to pronounce it. For years, I silently assigned sounds to words in my head, only to later discover I was completely wrong.
Take the word peruse. I can’t tell you how many years it had been that I mispronounced it as “per-use,” until I heard it spoken aloud. Suddenly, the word became tangible. It shifted from something I recognized visually to something I understood audibly.
And this is where vocabulary instruction feels limited. We teach definitions, but words are not meant to be memorized in isolation. They need to be spoken, heard, repeated, lived with.
Lately, I have been challenging myself to use the vocabulary words I teach my students and the words I encounter in reading. It feels almost like learning an entirely new language. Maybe that is why I struggled so much with Spanish; language never became something I comfortably inhabited. It remained something I studied rather than something I lived.
The sentence I repeated most often while living in Spain was, “Entiendo, pero me da vergüenza hablar.” I understand, but I feel embarrassed when I speak.
Looking back, that sentence highlights more than my struggle with Spanish; it reflects my relationship with language itself. Understanding was never the problem. I could follow conversations, grasp meaning, and interpret ideas. The challenge was allowing myself to participate fully: making mistakes, mispronouncing words, revealing what I had not yet mastered.
There is a vulnerability in using unfamiliar language. Whether speaking another language or adopting new vocabulary, there is a moment where you must accept imperfection.
You cannot only recognize language; you have to learn to own it.
And maybe that is what I am learning now: language does not become yours simply because you understand it. It becomes yours when you are willing to use it.
These days, I am trying to allow words to become part of my everyday expression.
Maybe I will use a word incorrectly. Maybe I will sound awkward. However, I would rather risk discomfort while expanding my linguistic abilities than remain confined to the same familiar words I have always used.
I have also realized that understanding foundational grammar—knowing the difference between a noun, verb, adjective, and adverb—is essential to mastering vocabulary. This is where many students struggle, and honestly, where I struggled as well.
I can introduce a word, explain its meaning, and watch students demonstrate comprehension, but applying it correctly requires a different level of understanding.
Take the word mischief.
A student might say, “My classmates are mischief in class, making the teacher upset.”
The meaning is there. They understand the concept of troublesome behavior, but the application is still developing.
So we return to grammar.
Mischief is a noun. The classmates are not “mischief”; they cause mischief. If we want to describe them, we need the adjective form: mischievous.
“My classmates are mischievous.”
Teaching this is easier than watching students fully internalize how words function and apply that understanding independently. But I am impressed that they even try to use it. The attempt itself reveals growth. They are not missing meaning; they are learning the architecture of language.
And maybe that is exactly what I am doing too.
I find myself intentionally replacing familiar words with more intentional ones. Instead of “stop exaggerating,” I might say, “stop speaking in hyperbole.” Instead of “this class is loud,” I might say, “this class is quite boisterous.” These are not extraordinary words, but they shift something in my thinking. They remind me that language has depth, complexity, and nuance.
Words are not only tools for communication; they shape perception. They influence how we articulate thoughts, interpret experiences, and connect with others.
While reading Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein with my class, I noticed this quality in her writing. She chooses words that are not always predictable or commonly spoken. She does not simply write the way people talk. Instead, she elevates language and trusts the reader to pause, infer, and uncover meaning through context.
And I think we have lost some of that trust in modern writing.
So often, we write exactly how we speak. We choose the quickest word, the easiest word, the most familiar word. But older literature was not afraid to challenge readers. It invited curiosity. It assumed readers could sit with language, examine it, and infer meaning.
I have a growing veneration for authors who do not underestimate their readers and trust curiosity to carry understanding.
Why choose the simplest possible word when another could elicit a stronger emotion or evoke a sharper image? There is power in a word that makes you pause. A word that elicits curiosity. A word that makes you linger.
Maybe vocabulary is not about appearing academic or intelligent. Maybe it is about becoming more intentional. Maybe it is about developing a more refined way of seeing and expressing the world.
The more I practice, the more I realize vocabulary is not something you simply memorize. It is something you cultivate. It is something you build a relationship with.
And I, for sure, am still building mine.