In the world of mental health—whether as clinicians, peers, advocates, or friends—language matters. The words we choose shape perceptions, influence relationships, and define the boundaries of trust. As someone deeply embedded in this field, both personally and professionally, I constantly reflect on how my language impacts others.
Words can build bridges, but they can just as easily erode trust. I learned this lesson the hard way, through experiences that challenged not only my role as a therapist and peer but also my understanding of what it means to truly help.
The Case of the “Walkthrough”
One afternoon, after a conflict with a volatile neighbor, I called my housing caseworker for support. Instead of addressing the issue, she arrived at my door and announced she would perform a “walkthrough” of my apartment.
A walkthrough.
It wasn’t advocacy. It wasn’t problem-solving. It was surveillance disguised in ambiguous language. I stood there feeling like an inmate during a cell inspection, stripped of autonomy and invalidated by someone whose job was to assist me.
I wasn’t unsafe, unwell, or asking for intervention. But with one word—walkthrough—she reframed the visit and established an unspoken power dynamic.
The Mirror Reflects Back
Fast forward to just two days ago, and I found myself unintentionally playing the same role.
A friend and I have long held a mutual check-in system. It’s casual, rooted in friendship, not formalized care. We check on each other’s health, mental and otherwise. But this system had never been stress-tested by a crisis.
After not hearing from her for a while, I grew uneasy. Despite her assurance that she was fine, I decided to stop by. Without realizing the gravity of my words, I told her:
“I’m going to eyeball you.”
Eyeball?
In that moment, I became the caseworker. I had created a new term—**just like “walkthrough”—**that didn’t reflect the care or respect I intended. Her response cut deep:
“This is what the system does.”
Her words stayed with me. In trying to help, I had inadvertently minimized her autonomy. I assumed a position of authority, regardless of my good intentions.
The Weight of Experience and Narrative
This wasn’t the first time I’d crossed that line.
Years ago, I shared the lived experience of a colleague with one of our shared clients. In my eagerness to make a connection, I overstepped—treating another person’s experience as a tool rather than honoring it as personal property.
The fallout was immediate. The client weaponized the story, causing chaos within the team. My peer felt betrayed. And I realized something profound:
Your lived experience is yours to own. You do not have ownership over the stories of others.
By sharing my colleague’s narrative, I had taken power from him. I blurred the line between empathy and exploitation. The same dynamic emerged when I dismissed my friend’s assertion that she was okay.
Lessons in Language and Boundaries
These experiences highlight a truth we often overlook—helping is not about control.
•Language defines power. Simple words like “walkthrough” or “eyeball” imply surveillance and invalidate personal agency.
•Trust is fragile. It doesn’t matter how well you know someone. When your actions contradict their expressed boundaries, trust erodes.
•Narratives are sacred. Sharing another’s experience without consent, even for good reasons, diminishes their ownership over their own story.
I’ve come to understand that the intention behind our words often means less than the impact they have. Even small linguistic missteps can echo the very systems we criticize.
Repairing Trust and Moving Forward
When I realized my mistake with my friend, I apologized. We laughed it off, but the moment lingered for both of us.
The core of mental health work—whether professional or personal—lies in respecting autonomy and creating space for others to define their experiences. The lesson?
•Listen when someone says they’re okay.
•Question the words you use. Are they empowering or intrusive?
•Let narratives remain with their owners.
Most importantly, stay open to being corrected. When we slip up—and we all do—the path forward is paved with humility and a willingness to learn.
Language is more than communication. It is the architecture of trust.
Author Info:
Max E. Guttman
Max E. Guttman is the owner of Mindful Living LCSW, PLLC, a private mental health practice in Yonkers, New York.
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