Vocabulary

Your Problem Is Not That You Cannot Explain It. It Is That You Have Not Decided What It Is.

Have you ever found yourself saying:

— ‘I’m struggling to explain this.’

— ‘I know what I mean, but I can’t say it properly.’

— ‘Let me try that again . . . ‘

And then, after a few attempts, you feel frustrated, as if the words are just out of reach. Most of us assume that this is a communication problem. That if only we could find the right words, everything would be clear. However, here is the surprising truth: most of the time, the problem is not communication; it is decision. It is not a failure of language. It is a lack of definition.

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Clarity Is Not a Writing Skill. It Is a Strategic Advantage.

Most people treat clarity as a peripheral skill, something to tidy up after you have finished your message. It is often seen as a writing skill, a communication preference, or a ‘nice-to-have’ finishing touch.

Many approach clarity as a superficial layer, an editing task to be polished at the end, rather than a fundamental strategic lever. However, here is the truth: in high-stakes work, clarity is not a finishing touch. It is a strategic advantage.

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Your Organisation Does Not Have a Writing Problem: It Has a Thinking Problem

‘We need better writing.’

It is one of the most common, and often the most frustrating, complaints inside organisations today. Leaders, managers, and teams alike seem convinced that the root of their communication woes is a lack of polish, clarity, or style. The typical fix? Hire a writer. Or bring in an editor. Polish the words until they shine.

But what if that is not the real problem?

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Why English Is So Good at Naming Problems

Imagine this: you have been feeling exhausted, frustrated, and plagued by self-doubt for weeks or even months. The days blur together, and you struggle to articulate what is wrong. You might think, ‘Why do I feel this way? What is this?’ However, words continue to elude you.

Then one day, you hear a term, such as burnout, imposter syndrome, gaslighting, or overthinking, and suddenly, everything shifts. That nebulous, tangled feeling suddenly has a shape, a name. The chaos in your mind condenses into a concept you can grasp.

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Holi and the Language of Colour: How English Paints the World

Today, the air is colour.

Faces blur into pinks and blues.
Clothes lose their boundaries.
Identity softens under gulal.

Holi reminds us that colour is not merely decoration: it is an experience. It is a language, a way of seeing and feeling. And interestingly, the language we use, particularly English has very specific ways of handling colour, shaping our perception in subtle ways.

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English Is Addicted to Clarity: What We Lose When Everything Must Be Clear

Imagine a familiar scene: a teacher tells a student that their answer is ‘unclear’. A boss tells an employee, ‘I need this to be clearer.’ A friend texts, ‘Just say what you mean.’ These moments are commonplace in everyday communication. Clarity, in these contexts, is not merely a stylistic choice; it is a moral imperative.

In English-speaking cultures, the demand for clarity has become almost sacrosanct. It is as if clarity is the moral currency of honesty, trustworthiness, and competence. But when did this obsession with clarity begin? And what might we be sacrificing in the process? More importantly, when did clarity become a virtue, an ethical obligation of sorts, and ambiguity a flaw?

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English Has No Place for the Collective Soul

Imagine you are sitting in a meeting, and someone says, ‘We apologise for the inconvenience.’ Or perhaps, during a national tragedy, they say, ‘We are heartbroken.’

In both cases, the pronoun we appears, invoking a sense of collective unity. Yet, have you ever paused to ask, ‘Who exactly is we?’

Everyone understands the sentence; yet, nobody clearly inhabits it. It is a linguistic gesture, a shared social convention, but not necessarily an experience. We can be a political statement, a diplomatic phrase, or a rhetorical device, but it rarely captures the visceral feeling of a true shared inner life.

This leads us to a fundamental question: why does English, despite its global reach, seem to lack a linguistic space for the collective soul? Why does it struggle to articulate genuine shared emotion, thought, and responsibility?

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English and the Disappearing Body: Why the Language Prefers Minds Over Flesh

Imagine a typical conversation, whether in a clinic, a classroom, or a casual chat. We often hear expressions such as  ‘I’m stressed,’ ‘I feel anxious,’ or ‘I have a headache.’ Notice, however, that we do not usually say, ‘My heart is tight,’ ‘My chest feels heavy,’ or ‘My stomach is knotted.’  

The body lurks in the background of our language — present, yet often silent. It is as if the flesh and bones that house our experience have been politely asked to step aside or, perhaps, invisibly excised from our linguistic landscape.

This raises a central question: why does English so frequently report and describe human experience from the head, the mind, rather than from the flesh and bones?

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English and the Fear of Excess: Why the Language Keeps Cutting Itself Short

Imagine a conversation where every compliment is softly hedged, every emotion is gently tempered, and every assertion is carefully nuanced. English speakers frequently employ phrases such as ‘not bad’, ‘a bit’, or ‘just’ to soften statements and often apologise even when no real fault exists. For example, someone might say, ‘Sorry to bother you,’ even when they are not inconveniencing anyone. This tendency is not merely cultural politeness; it reflects a deeper linguistic habit, one that subtly signals a reluctance to fully express excess or intensity.

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Why English Loves Straight Lines: How the Language Trains Us to Think Clearly — and Coldly

Imagine reading a sentence in English. It begins with a subject, then a verb, then an object — straightforward, unambiguous, progressing in a single direction. From the earliest lessons in school, we learn that sentences should flow from beginning to middle to end, each part building upon the last in a neat, linear fashion. This structural simplicity makes English remarkably efficient for communication: ideas are presented in an order that clarifies cause and effect, responsibility, and progression.

But what if this architectural elegance of English extends beyond grammar and vocabulary? What if the very way the language is built influences not just how we communicate but how we think, shaping our perceptions of time, responsibility, emotion, and connection?

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