The Words That Once Wounded Us

Some of the names that shaped me were never on my birth certificate.

They were whispered behind my back. Yelled across playgrounds. Slipped into casual jokes that weren’t funny. Sometimes they came with a smile. Sometimes with a smirk. But they always landed the same way—like a scratch on glass. Slight, at first. 

But over time? 

Cracks. 

Fractures. 

A quiet war on identity.

Little Miss Chatterbox.

Natanya Lasagna.

FUGLY

Too much.

Too loud.

The Beast.

The Machine.

Too smart for her own good.

and many more…

You might laugh at some of those. And honestly, so do I now. 

But only because I’ve made peace with the parts of me that once felt too heavy to hold.

See, Little Miss Chatterbox wasn’t just a cutesy character from a kid’s book. 

It was a nickname used to shush me. To tell me I was “too talkative,” “too opinionated,” “too emotional,” “too much.” And maybe I was. But now? I accept it and I tend to it.

And Natanya Lasagna? That one came from the boys on my swim team—mocking a name that was different and many couldn’t pronounce. It made me cringe for years. 

Now? I offer it as a trick to help people remember how to say my name right. 

I flipped the script. Made the punchline my permission slip. Because I get to decide what enters my story—and how it’s told.

:But here’s the real thing sometimes, no one teaches you:

Words only own you when you don’t own them first.

What started as a simple photo of me with a faux vintage phone, that I jokingly labeled ‘Little Miss Chatterbox’, became something bigger. A symbol. A reckoning. 

A wink at the girl who used to sit in silent shame after being called “too much.” 

I see her now. I love her. I let her speak freely.

And I wonder how many of us are still haunted by names we never asked for.

This is where it gets heavier.

Some names go far beyond teasing. 

They’re slurs. 

Weapons. Centuries of violence wrapped in a single syllable.

The N-word.

F*ggot.

Queer.

Retard.

Puta.

Fatso.

Coconut.

Terrorist.

Each one sits in a different body differently. 

Each one comes with its own history, its own sting, its own legacy of erasure.

And I want to be clear: I don’t pretend to own the pain of words that were never meant for me. 

I am not a minority. I am not in the LGBTQ+ community. So I cannot speak for these identities—but I can listen. 

I can witness. I can honor the courage it takes to reclaim what was meant to shame you.

Like when queer became a banner instead of a bruise.

Or when communities said, “You don’t get to use this word against me anymore. I’m taking it back.”

Reclamation is not universal. 

Not everyone wants the word back. Not everyone can use it safely. 

But for some, reclaiming a word becomes a kind of spiritual aikido—using the enemy’s energy against itself. Transmuting poison into power.

That’s what I’ve done, in my own quiet way, with the softer slurs. The less obvious cuts. The socially acceptable jabs that people still make under the guise of “just joking.”

“You’re a lot.”

“You’re bossy.”

“You’re emotional.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“You’re exhausting.”

Yeah, I am.

And I’m still here.

Let me tell you what matters to me now: the names we give ourselves.

In a world that wants to shrink you, your weirdness is your weapon.

Your scars are your syllables.

Your “too muchness” might just be the exact size of the revolution.

Because sometimes, what wounds you most isn’t a racial slur or a public insult. 

Sometimes, it’s the subtle sabotage that creeps in when you’re told you talk too much. Or that you feel too deeply. 

Or that your name is too complicated for the roster, so they’ll just call you something easier.

That’s why I’m writing this. Not for pity. Not for applause.

But because maybe there’s a name still echoing in your head.

A word that bent your spine.

A label that lived too long under your skin.

Maybe it’s time to set it down. Or pick it up.

Not as baggage. But as badge.

:bulb:Because here’s the truth:

When you own your language, you own your liberation.

So yeah—call me Little Miss Chatterbox.

I’ll take it.

And I’ll turn it into a microphone.

A megaphone.

A manifesto.

Because the voice they tried to tame is the same one I now use to set fires.

To spark change.

To name what’s never been named before.

What about you?

What word are you ready to reclaim?