I've always been fascinated by the dual nature of words—how these simple combinations of letters can either slice through defenses or stitch broken pieces back together. They're tools of incredible precision, these little marks we make on paper, these sounds we shape with our mouths. Like knives and needles in a surgeon's hands, their power lies not just in their sharpness, but in how we choose to use them.
Some people wield words like weapons, throwing them without thought, letting them cut indiscriminately. I've seen how a carelessly thrown phrase can create wounds that take years to heal, how a moment of verbal anger can leave scars that last a lifetime. Words can slice through confidence, shred trust, tear apart relationships that took years to build.
But these same tools, handled with care and intention, can perform surgery on the soul. They can excise old hurts, drain infected thoughts, clean out festering doubts. The right words, spoken at the right moment, can cut away the dead weight of fear or shame or inadequacy. They can make precise incisions that let light into dark places.
And then there's the gentle art of stitching with words. Of carefully threading together understanding, of weaving connections between hearts, of patching up torn relationships. I think of this every time I write, every time I speak—am I using my words to cut or to mend? Am I wielding them like knives or threading them like needles?
As someone who lives in words, who dreams in them, who uses them to make sense of the world, I've learned to respect their power. I've watched how a well-timed "I'm proud of you" can strengthen someone's spine, how a sincere "I believe in you" can stitch confidence into doubt-riddled thoughts. I've seen how "I understand" or "I'm here" can suture together moments of brokenness, how "I love you" can bind wounds we thought would never heal.
The truth is, we're all performing surgery of sorts whenever we speak or write. Every conversation is an operation, every written piece a procedure. Some days we're making careful incisions into important topics, other days we're stitching together communities with shared stories. Sometimes we're excising old beliefs that no longer serve us, sometimes we're suturing new understanding into existence.
I think about this responsibility every time I sit down to write, every time I open my mouth to speak. The power to hurt or heal sits right there on the tip of my tongue, waits at the end of my pen. Each word is a choice—to cut or to mend, to break or to heal, to create wounds or to stitch them closed.
This is especially true in my role as a property manager, where words can mean the difference between conflict and resolution, between chaos and calm. In my writing, where each sentence has the potential to either alienate or connect. In my relationships, where the right words can bridge any distance, and the wrong ones can create chasms that feel impossible to cross.
The art lies in knowing when each tool is needed. Sometimes healing requires both—the knife to cut away what's diseased and the needle to stitch up what remains. Sometimes truth needs to be sharp, needs to cut through layers of denial or deceit. But even then, the cutting can be clean, precise, aimed at healing rather than harm.
I've learned that the sharpest truths can be threaded with kindness, that necessary cuts can be followed by careful stitching. That sometimes we need to perform minor surgeries on ourselves—cutting away self-doubt, stitching in self-worth, carefully suturing new patterns of thinking over old scars.
Each day gives us countless opportunities to choose how we'll use these tools. Will we let our words slash carelessly through other people's hearts? Or will we use them with precision, with purpose, with the intention to heal?
As writers, as speakers, as humans trying to connect across the spaces between us, we hold both knives and needles in our hands. The miracle isn't just in their power to cut or mend—it's in our power to choose which tool we'll use, and how we'll use it.
Our words create the world we live in, one syllable at a time. They shape our relationships, our communities, our very understanding of ourselves. In the end, we all leave marks on the world—the question is whether those marks will be scars or stitches.
-Amanda
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