Why Words Matter: Choosing Humanity Over Harm

In a 1990 interview with Barbara Walters, Donald Trump was asked if he thought it was appropriate to call the then-mayor of New York a “moron.” Trump replied, “It’s how I feel.”

This seemingly simple exchange highlights a profound trap I’ve seen many people, not just Trump, fall into: the belief that evaluations and judgments are feelings. They are not.

Feelings are bodily sensations, rooted deep within our mammalian wiring. Psychologists agree there are only a few core feelings — typically variations of mad, sad, glad, and afraid. Some research adds disgust and surprise.

What we often call “feelings” are actually judgments: thoughts, evaluations, labels we assign to others or ourselves. What we usually call feelings are the stories we have attached to an event that’s happened.

This is a key distinction and one of the most powerful ones I know of for communication.

When someone is called a “moron,” a “loser,” or having “bad blood” these are not feelings. These are judgments about the worth of that human. That shift — from speaking our feelings to labeling another human being — is where violence begins.

Barbara Coloroso, in her important work Extraordinary Evil: A Brief History of Genocide, names this dynamic. She tells us that name-calling is one of the first steps that can lead toward violence. Before any human atrocity, there is language that strips away another person’s humanity — making it easier to justify cruelty.

Language prepares the emotional ground for love and elevation or hate and harm.

Here’s the deeper truth: as mammals, we are wired for kindness. We seek connection. We thrive on belonging. We cannot easily hurt another unless we first convince ourselves that the other is dangerous, inferior, or less than human.

Just as a frightened dog might bite if it feels cornered or threatened, so too do humans act out of fear when they believe their safety — emotional, physical, or social — is under attack.

If we feel safe, we are capable of extraordinary acts of kindness and generosity.

If we feel threatened, we are capable of cruelty and violence.

That is why language matters so deeply.

Our words can either create a sense of safety — affirming our shared humanity — or they can create fear and division, laying the foundation for harm.

Throughout history, leaders have used fear. They paint a certain group as “dangerous,” “dirty,” “other.” Once fear is ignited in us as mammals, all manner of cruelty becomes easier to justify in the name of self-protection. We have seen this too many times: in the language preceding genocides, in the rhetoric fueling hate crimes, in the slow corrosion of civil discourse that fractures societies.

Today, as Donald Trump and others continue to model language rooted in judgment, name-calling, and dehumanization, we must ask ourselves:

What am I modeling in return?

Because here is the antidote: It is not enough to reject the language of cruelty. Each of us must actively model the non-violent, compassionate language of our best selves. We must take the higher ground: not as an act of submission but as an act of keeping in harmony with our own highest values.

This is the path forward: we must learn — and teach — the difference between:

• Behaviors (“When the decision was made, I noticed…”)
• Feelings (“I felt afraid…”)
• Values/Deeper Needs (“I value high-quality work….”)

By speaking in these domains —behaviors, feeling, values or bedrock needs — we keep the focus on our shared humanity, not on our judgments.

“Do not judge. Do not judge. Do not judge.”

We must discern yes. But to judge a person as lesser thank leaves space for violence, not dialogue.

Can you recognize the signs of emotion-inciting rhetoric that is becoming the norm in political leadership? When someone language seeks to trigger fear — let’s instead, ground ourselves in compassion and clarity.

We can say, “Do not judge. I notice I’m feeling afraid right now. Do not judge. What do I truly need?”

Let’s do that together instead of turning each other into enemies.

This is not easy work.

• It is a discipline of the heart and the mind.
• It requires slowing down, breathing, and noticing.
• It requires choosing curiosity over certainty and humility over judging someone.

And above all, it requires awareness and discernment of what are our better instincts — the ones rooted in kindness, courage, and connection. And, I bring a hope and a prayer that our better nature can prevail, even in fearful times.

I do not know if Donald Trump would agree that calling someone a moron is not a feeling. But if he did, it would be a different world.

But that is not the point here. The point is what we choose.

The point is what you and I model every day in our own conversations, our own inner dialogues, our own leadership. When we speak from our shared humanity — even when others do not — we help create small islands of safety.

And those islands, iif there are enough of them, can link together to form a bridge back to a more compassionate world.

This is our work now:

• To choose words that dignify, not diminish.
• To recognize fear, but not obey it.
• To model — fiercely and tenderly — the truth that we belong to each other.

Because when we remember that, violence loses its grip.

And kindness, even in the smallest acts, becomes a revolutionary force.

Warmly,