Finding Language for Complex Work

Where I First Learned to Pay Attention

I learned the power of language in places that never looked like writing classrooms.

In massage school in Alaska, my instructor would ask, “What are you feeling under your hands right now.” I never answered with the words everyone else used. While they named muscles and structures, I said things like, “It feels like gravel under the skin,” or, “The tissue feels like it is holding its breath.” For a long time, I thought I was getting it wrong. Later I realized those images made more sense to my clients than anything I could have said from our textbook.

That was the first time I noticed how the right words can make something invisible feel understandable.

When Words Become Barriers

Years later, in an adult education computer lab, one of my students sat in front of the Canvas orientation page reading the instructions over and over. The sentence said, “Complete the intake packet to initiate the enrollment process.” She looked at me and said, “I do not know what this means.”

We rewrote it right there.
“Fill out these forms so you can start class.”
She nodded. She clicked next. Her shoulders dropped a little.

That moment stays with me because the change was tiny, but it changed everything for her.

The Language People Use When They Are Being Honest

In my massage studio in Boise, people reach for words all the time. They sit down with their tea and say, “I feel heavy,” or, “My neck feels tied to the ceiling,” or, “I think I left my body somewhere and forgot where I put it.” The sentences are rough and imperfect, but they tell the truth faster than any wellness vocabulary.

My writing starts in those moments.
Not on the page.
Right there, when someone is trying to describe something they have never had language for.

Seeing What People Actually Feel

During my internship with The Global Career Accelerator, I spent weeks working on a charity: water campaign. I kept thinking about the way Boise students refill their bottles without thinking. Then I pictured a teenager in Zambia walking across dry ground with a yellow jerrycan. That image said more than any statistic I could pull from a report.

The whole campaign grew from that contrast. It reminded me that writing works best when it comes from something grounded and real, not from trying to sound polished.

Asking Better Questions

When someone asks me to help with their website or program description, I start with questions that pull them back into their actual work.

What does a first session feel like.
What does your space smell like.
What happens in the first few minutes before anything “official” starts.
What do people usually say when they walk in.
What do you wish they understood, but no one ever asks you to put into words.

People usually pause. They picture the room where their work actually happens. Then they give me something genuine.

A therapist once said, “Most of my clients are people who look fine all day and fall apart in their car.” That one sentence carried more truth than her entire original bio. It became the center of everything we wrote after that.

Writing From Real Rooms

This is how I write now.
I stay close to rooms and people, not theory.

Massage rooms where someone’s breathing finally drops.
Classrooms where adults take a long breath before clicking “submit.”
Studios where healing looks more like softening than changing.
Campaigns built from one clear image instead of a dozen buzzwords.

I write because so many people are doing steady, necessary work that rarely gets the right language. They deserve words that feel like a pathway, not a wall.

Why This Matters to Me

If I do my work well, the language feels simple and honest. It gives someone a way to recognize themselves in the description. It opens a door.

And when a client, student, or colleague reads something I wrote and says, “Yes, that is exactly what I meant,” I know the writing is true. I know it belongs to them.

That is the kind of writing I want in the world. And that is the kind of writing I want my own work to contribute to.