Over breakfast one morning, while scrolling through my social media feed, looking for inspiration, a post caught my eye — not because it was remarkable, but because of a comment beneath it. It wasn’t loud or profane, just casually dismissive, the kind that is tossed off without thought. But, it lingered and triggered something in my mind.

In our current world, we speak more than ever — posting, reacting, debating — but I wonder if we’re saying more while meaning less. The ease with which words are thrown around makes it easy to forget they carry weight.

I do not claim to have always spoken with wisdom. I haven’t. But, I was raised in a home, and shaped by a faith where words were never meant to be cheap. My father was careful with speech. He rarely said more than necessary, but when he did speak, people listened, not because of power, but because of presence. My maternal grandmother, quieter still, believed in timing. Her words came gently but clearly, with intention. Between them, I learned that restraint was not weakness, but respect.

During my early years at JASMS, speaking out was encouraged, but never without thought. We were taught not only to question but also to listen, to build meaning rather than just volume. That balance feels more elusive now.

There are words that stayed with me. A godfather once told me, during a difficult time in my life, “You don’t have to know the answer now. But you do need to keep asking the right questions.”

That line didn’t demand a reaction — it simply stayed. Words like that don’t perform; they accompany. And in their quiet, they shape us.

In my faith, silence is held with care. There’s a saying: “If what you want to say is not more beautiful than silence, do not say it.”

I don’t always live up to that, but I return to it when I’m tempted to speak out of pride or frustration. Silence, I’ve come to see, isn’t avoidance. Most times, it’s the strongest response — a way of waiting until the right words come, words that don’t just react, but reach.

I have witnessed how the wrong choice of words — spoken too quickly, carelessly — can damage more than they reveal. I have also seen how the right ones, said at the right time, can lift someone back to themselves. Maybe that is why I keep trying to write, even when the noise makes retreat feel easier.

This is not a call to silence. Definitely, we need strong voices, especially now. But, we also need strong restraint, discernment, a willingness to pause before we speak, to ask whether what we are about to say builds, or merely breaks.

There is a quiet sadness in writing this — perhaps, because I know that some words, I have needed to say came too late, or that sincerity often feels like it no longer travels far.

But I still believe in words — the ones that stay; the ones that come slowly, honestly; the ones spoken not to dominate, but to dignify.

Those are the words worth holding on to. Those are the words I still hope to find.