THE INCONGRUITY OF OURSELVES [From Saying to Becoming]

When the words we repeat shape the bodies we live in.

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Lately, I’ve been aware of how carefully I speak.

Not publicly — privately.

To myself.
To my body.
To the places in me that are tired of trying to believe the right thing.

There are words I want to say because they sound strong.
Words that would make everyone feel better.
Words that would let me step cleanly into hope and skip over the mess of waiting.

But my body won’t let me say them.

I feel it when the words rise —
the tightening in my chest,
the shallow breath,
the quiet resistance of flesh that knows when it’s being asked to carry more than it can hold.

I’ve learned this the hard way:
the body does not obey language it doesn’t trust.

Trust, I’m discovering, is not built by saying the right thing.
It’s built by saying the truest thing —
even when that truth is smaller, quieter, less impressive.

This season has stripped me of easy words.

I no longer have the luxury of spiritual shorthand.
I can’t afford phrases that sound faithful but leave my nervous system braced.
I can’t speak declarations my body experiences as demand instead of care.

Which is why the story I return to again and again right now
is not one of triumph,
but of incarnation.

The Word became flesh.

Not as an idea to admire,
but as a body willing to submit to time, hunger, pain, and love.

I’m struck by this more than ever because I am living inside the cost of words.

What I speak over myself matters.
What I repeat shapes my breath, my chemistry, my capacity to rest.
I can feel my body responding — or recoiling — in real time.

Some words rally me.
Others exhaust me.

And so I’m learning to listen before I speak.
To let the flesh have a vote.
To choose language that heals rather than performs.

This is where my hard moment meets yours.

Because whether you are facing illness, grief, uncertainty, or a quiet unraveling no one else can see, you already know this tension—
The ache of wanting to say more than you can live.
The pressure to sound okay when your body is asking for honesty.
The exhaustion of carrying words that were never meant to stay.

This is why, in this season,
the Word becoming flesh feels less like theology
and more like instruction.

If what we speak is meant to become embodied,
then every utterance is an act of formation.

And the question becomes unavoidable:
What am I calling my body to become with what I keep saying?

For a long time, I believed that truth was something that needed to be released.
Identified.
Spoken aloud.
And that mattered.
It still does.

Silence can make us sick.
What we swallow has a way of settling into the body.

Truth wants to be spoken.

But there is another movement of truth — one that arrives after the words have been said.

Truth also wants to be embodied.

It wants to live somewhere.
It wants muscle and breath and rhythm.
It wants a nervous system that can carry it without collapse.

This is where the incongruity appears —
the space between what we say and what we can actually sustain.

We speak with our mouths,
but our bodies are the ones that must carry the weight.
The body listens closely.
It responds to repetition.
To tone.
To what is said gently and what is said under duress.

When we repeat certain phrases long enough, chemistry adjusts.
Breath shortens or deepens.
Muscles brace or release.
The brain learns what kind of future to prepare for.

This isn’t metaphor.
It’s physiology.

Which means the cost of our words is real.

Many of us are tired not because we lack faith or honesty,
but because we keep speaking language the body has never been given time to inhabit.

We say we’re fine when the body is tense.
We say we trust when our breath tells another story.
We say we’re healed when the body is still asking for care.

This isn’t hypocrisy.
It’s incongruity.

And it’s exhausting.

There is a particular fatigue that comes from maintaining words that sound right
but don’t yet rest in the bones.

Even Christ did not resolve the distance between word and flesh quickly—
He observed.
He waited.
He learned hunger, fear, joy, grief.
He allowed time and love to teach the body how to carry the Word.

The miracle was not only that God spoke —but that He stayed.
That He submitted to the slow work of becoming.

If incarnation required patience even of God,
perhaps it will require patience of us.

Perhaps holiness is not found in saying the right things,
but in letting language mature at the pace of the body.
In speaking only what we are willing to practice.
In choosing words that can stay.

There is a third way here —
between silence and performance.

Say what your body can live.
And let the rest stay unspoken until it’s real.

This is not about shrinking hope.
It’s about rooting it.

Because every utterance builds something —
a posture,
a rhythm,
a way of being.

The question is not whether our words matter.
The question is what we are shaping
with what we keep saying.
And whether we are willing to become
the flesh our words are asking for.

NOTES — Prescriptions for a Living Lexicon

The Lexicon of Becoming

Before we reach for new words, it helps to listen to the ones already living in us.

Most of us speak in phrases we’ve never examined —
sentences learned in survival, repeated out of habit,
language that once helped us cope but now covertly asks the body to stay braced.

We don’t usually notice this because the words sound ordinary.
Harmless. True enough.

“I’m so tired.”
“I can’t do this.”
“I’m fine.”
“It is what it is.”
“I don’t have time.”

Over time, these phrases begin to shape the inner climate.
Not dramatically. But faithfully.

The body organizes itself around what it hears most often —
tightening breath, narrowing possibility, preparing for scarcity or strain.

This isn’t a failure of faith or discipline.
It’s simply the body doing what it does best:
listening.

The good news is not that we can control ourselves with better language.
It’s that the body responds just as faithfully to gentler words.

Simple phrases —
I’m learning.
I’m healing.
I am here.

do something different inside us.

Breath softens.
Rhythms steady.
The nervous system receives a signal of safety.

This isn’t poetry. It’s physiology.

Practice One — Awareness Before Articulation

Before changing your words, notice them.

Spend a day listening to what you say most often —
especially in moments of stress, fatigue, or discouragement.

Which phrases feel heavy when you hear them aloud?
Which ones cause the body to hurry, tighten, or brace?

You don’t need to correct them yet.
Awareness alone begins the work.

Practice Two — Re-alignment, Not Replacement

Instead of forcing yourself into “better” language,
look for words the body can agree with.

Rather than:
“I’m so tired.”
Try:
“I need rest, and I’m allowed to take it.”

Rather than:
“I can’t.”
Try:
“I’m learning how.”

Rather than:
“I’m fine.”
Try:
“I’m feeling something, and that matters.”

Speak these slowly. Out loud, if you can.

The body trusts what it hears in your own voice.

Practice Three — Let Pace Tell the Truth

The nervous system recognizes sincerity through speed.

Fast speech signals urgency.
Slow speech signals safety.

When you notice yourself rushing a sentence, pause.
Let silence complete the thought before you do.

Often, the truest words arrive after the pause.

Practice Four — Create a Living Lexicon

Begin a small list titled:
Words That Make Me More Alive.

These are not affirmations to perform.
They are phrases the body recognizes as honest.

Add to the list as you notice what opens your chest,
what steadies your breath,
what feels possible rather than impressive.

Return to this list when language feels hard.

Practice Five — Let the Word Keep Becoming

The original miracle did not end.

The Word became flesh —
and continues to do so through us.

Every thought carried on breath participates in formation.

Before speaking, ask gently:
Can my body live inside this sentence?

If yes, let it be said.
If not, let it wait.

Footnote on Language & the Body

The phrases here weren’t chosen at random.

They show up again and again in everyday conversation — in kitchens, doctor’s offices, text threads, workplaces — especially when life feels demanding or uncertain. Linguistic researchers who study ordinary speech patterns consistently find phrases like “I’m so tired,” “I can’t do this,” “I’m fine,” “It is what it is,” and “I don’t have time” among the most commonly repeated ways we talk about ourselves.

What’s striking is not just how often these phrases are spoken, but how faithfully the body responds to them.

Research across fields like stress physiology, neuroscience, and psychoneuroimmunology suggests that repeated self-referential language influences the nervous system — shaping breath patterns, stress responses, emotional regulation, and even how much flexibility the brain has access to in difficult moments.

The inverse appears to be true as well.

Language that signals presence, permission, and safety — even when it’s modest and unfinished — supports steadier rhythms in the body over time. Not because words are magical, but because the body listens closely to what it hears most often and organizes itself accordingly.

This isn’t about policing language or forcing positivity. It’s about noticing what we repeat — and choosing words the body can live inside.