Language is deeply personal. It reflects our values, identities, and professional contributions. Losing the words that have shaped our work can feel like erasure—like being forced to abandon principles we hold dear.

Yet, language evolves. It always has. We have witnessed this in every sphere of life. Once, it was acceptable for me to label my patient as “CPMR” (cerebral palsy with mental retardation). Just typing that phrase now makes me cringe. Today, we use person-first language, recognizing the dignity of individuals with intellectual or developmental disabilities.

As a Black woman, I have seen this shift in my own identity. We have been Negroes, Afro-Americans, African-Americans, and now—once again—Black. We have always been Black. In the 1970s, we were told to say it loud and proud, yet even today, some hesitate to use the term.

But something feels different about this current evolution of language. This shift is not happening organically, on our own terms. It is being forced—politically, legislatively, and strategically. I will admit that I have gone through a grieving process because of it. Kübler-Ross’s stages of grief remind me that loss, whether of a loved one or the language that defines the essence of one’s body of work, can evoke denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

At first, I was in denial, hoping it would blow over, that this was just a temporary phase. Then came anger, realizing that not only was it not going away—it was intensifying.

Then came bargaining . . . and more anger. Then, a deep sadness in watching the historical pendulum swing backwards once again. More anger still. And now, finally, I have reached a kind of acceptance.

Not an acceptance of the silencing, but an acceptance of the choices before me. In a meeting, Brigit Carter, PhD, RN, CCRN, FAAN, chief access and engagement officer at the American Association of Colleges of Nursing, posed an important question:

“What’s more important—the words or the work?”

It is, of course, a false choice. But in this moment, it is a choice we must navigate.

If building a just and equitable world is like building a house, then language is a tool. If I’ve always used a hammer, but suddenly find it ineffective—while a screwdriver now allows me to keep building—do I cling to the hammer out of principle? Or do I pivot to the tool that lets me continue the work?

The goal has always been justice. Language has always been a means to that end. If language clarifies and connects, we use it. If it becomes a roadblock, we adjust.

That does not mean words don’t matter. They do. We should choose them carefully. But I hold this tension as I reflect on a quote from Mary McLeod Bethune, etched into the Reflection Room of the Legacy Museum in Montgomery, Alabama:

“If we have the courage and tenacity of our forebears, who stood firmly like a rock against the lash of slavery, we shall find a way to do for our day what they did for theirs.”

We shall find a way.

We have never known equity in this country. Our homeostasis has always been inequity. And as efforts arise to restore that inequitable baseline, I return to a question Paul Gorski poses (2017):

“Is this action a threat to the existence of inequity?” 

If I insist on using the precise words that name racist and oppressive structures, does that threaten inequity? If my words prevent the conversation from even starting, does that hinder the work of justice?

Holding on to certain words feels safe. It signals the critical consciousness needed to interrogate systems of oppression. Letting go of them can feel like surrender—like giving in. But there are costs either way. Emotional labor. The exhaustion of constantly reworking our language to be understood. Yet sometimes, a single word can be the difference between opening a conversation or shutting it down. Being stripped of words requires individuals to do more than extend their vocabulary. Grief is a process that requires compassion and time for healing.

Meeting people where they are is at the heart of what we do as nurses. If adjusting my language reduces defensiveness, creates space for dialogue, and broadens the reach of the work, then perhaps I am not losing ground—I am gaining builders for this house we are constructing.

So, I acknowledge the false choice between the words and the work. I grieve the loss of being able to name things exactly as I see them. But I also embrace the charge to find a way—to speak in ways that people can hear, to ensure that the work continues.

Like our ancestors, on whose shoulders we stand, we will not be deterred—we continue the struggle.

“We stand on the shoulders of many who did so much more with so much less. We resolve to honor their legacy and continue the struggle.” — Bryan Stevenson

By Danica Sumpter, PhD, RN, CNE, FADLN, chief education, equity, & wellness officer, CS Innovations. I acknowledge the use of ChatGPT for writing assistance and editing suggestions. All final edits and interpretations are my own.