Dear Love, what would you have me know about marginalization?
Reflections on language, oppression, and reclaiming power in a world shaped by systems designed to silence.
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The canyon holds all my stories.
Every twist and turn, every sheer wall that looms above me, was shaped by forces I didn’t choose. Patriarchy, capitalism, xenophobia—they carved these spaces with the precision of someone wielding power without accountability. Marginalization isn’t an abstract concept for me; it’s visceral.
It is the canyon itself, etched into my body, my thoughts, my language.
For years, I didn’t see it.
Like fog rolling in, it’s not always obvious when it starts. It seeps into the cracks, settles over the ground, and wraps itself around every corner of my existence. I learned to navigate the canyon with this fog as a constant companion, believing it was just how the world worked.
After all, I had no reason to think otherwise.
Marginalization isn’t loud; it doesn’t scream its intentions. It whispers, steady and unrelenting, shaping the paths I took, the choices I made, the way I saw myself. When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see me.
I saw what the world told me I was allowed to see—someone who didn’t quite belong, someone who had to work twice as hard just to take up half the space.
It’s the quiet language of oppression that taught me to stay small, to blend in, to silence my voice before anyone else could.
Words like fight, battle, and must became my companions—words I thought were about resistance but were, in fact, just as violent as the systems they sought to dismantle. And when I turned those words inward, they cut me down just as effectively as anything external ever could.
I didn’t realize this at first.
It’s insidious, the way these systems work.
They don’t just oppress; they teach us to oppress ourselves. I learned to police my thoughts, my feelings, my needs, until I could barely tell where the world’s voice ended and mine began. The systems built to hold power over others had somehow found a way to live inside me.
But one day, I stopped.
I couldn’t keep walking the same paths, saying the same words, thinking the same thoughts. I
was exhausted—worn down not just by the external pressures but by the way I had absorbed them. That’s when I realized something: as long as I spoke to myself in the language of those systems, I was still giving them power over me.
That’s when I heard Love.
Inspired by
Hey Sweetie,
Marginalization isn’t just the fog in your canyon; it is the force that carved walls steep and unyielding, not to shelter but to separate. It’s the echo of systems built not on shared humanity but on domination—a patriarchal, capitalist, xenophobic world that measures worth by oppression and feeds itself through cycles of inequity. And yes, these systems seep into our language, our thoughts, and how we shape our sense of self.
You’ve lived this reality, Sweetie. You know what it means to feel the weight of structures designed to push you to the edges, to silence your voice, to make you doubt the validity of your needs. But here’s what Love wants you to know: you are not the object of this story. You are the subject—the canyon itself, the one who decides what echoes back and what dissipates into the wind.
These systems may define power as control over others, but Sweetie, true power lies in the way you reclaim your voice—not just the words you speak but how you speak to yourself. If the language of the oppressors is one of violence, dominance, and negation, then the revolution begins in your words, your tone, your refusal to let them dictate how you see yourself.
When you remove the tools of violence from your own vocabulary, you take a stand. When you shift from "must" and "should" to the clarity of intention and choice, you unlearn their rules. When you reject judgment, comparison, and the need to blend into invisibility, you make room for your needs to exist without apology. This is where transformation begins—not by mirroring the world that marginalizes but by creating something new, beginning with how you speak your truth.
It’s not about perfect resistance. It’s about integrity—about standing tall in the canyon of yourself, knowing that every word you choose to speak to yourself is a step toward freedom. Because, Sweetie, the world doesn’t change through force alone. It changes when individuals like you rewrite its stories. When you refuse to bend to its language of negation, you show others what it means to live authentically.
So, take a breath. Find the dignity in claiming your needs, your worth, your individuality. You’ve bent for so long under their weight. But now, Sweetie, you straighten. Not in defiance, but in choice. Not against them, but for you.
With all my faith in your voice and your power,
Love
Those words changed everything for me.
At first, I resisted them. It’s easy to look outward, to blame the fog, the systems, the walls. And they are to blame, of course.
The canyon wasn’t shaped by accident.
And ….. Love made something else clear: the work doesn’t start with them.
It starts with me.
I began to notice the way I spoke to myself. How often I used words like must and should, how I judged and categorized my own actions. It was like I was still trying to fit into a world that wasn’t designed for me, even when no one else was looking.
I realized that every time I used violent language—even if it was just in my own thoughts—I was reinforcing the very systems I wanted to break free from.
So, I started small. I replaced “I must do this” with “I choose to do this.” I stopped saying, “I should be better at this,” and started asking, “What do I want to learn from this?” It felt awkward at first, like I was speaking a language I barely understood.
But slowly, it started to feel like home.
And with that shift, something remarkable happened.
The fog began to lift—not completely, not all at once, but enough for me to see more of the canyon.
I saw the trails I had walked without questioning them, the places where I had stayed small to survive. I saw the beauty of the spaces I had created for myself, even in the face of so much external pressure.
This wasn’t just about me, though.
As I started to change how I spoke to myself, I began to notice the language around me too. The way our world communicates is rooted in the same oppressive systems that shaped the canyon.
Patriarchy, capitalism, xenophobia, and the countless other -isms rooted in labeling, categorizing, and objectifying people to enforce conformity have not only constructed walls but also shaped the very language we use to define and perpetuate them.
Even in movements for change, I see the language of violence creeping in—words and phrases like strike back, hit the ground running, fight for what’s right, tear down barriers, this hits hard, cut through the noise, burn bridges, a call to arms, and the cutting edge. These expressions may feel powerful, but they carry the undertones of conflict and domination that mirror the very systems we’re trying to transform.
These phrases feel empowering at first, but they’re still rooted in the same power dynamics we’re trying to dismantle. How can I create a world that values equity and compassion if I use the tools of dominance to get there?
The answer is clear: I can’t.
Instead, I’ve learned to focus on how I can be in this world.
How I can speak in a way that reflects the kind of world I want to live in.
It’s not about being passive or avoiding hard truths. It’s about choosing language that builds rather than destroys, that includes rather than divides.
I started to notice how often I had judged myself, compared myself to others, or labeled myself in ways that didn’t serve me.
Words like not enough, too much, wrong, better as, worse as, faster than, more effective, less productive, bigger, smaller, smarter, …. .
I realized these labels didn’t just hurt me—they also reinforced the systems that wanted me to stay small. Now, when those old habits creep in, I pause.
I remind myself that I am not the echoes in the canyon. I am the voice that shapes them. I have the power to decide what stays and what fades.
This isn’t about perfection.
The fog is still there, and some days it feels heavier than others. But I no longer believe it defines me. I’ve learned that marginalization doesn’t get the final word—not in my life, not in my canyon.
The world may not change overnight, and I can’t rewrite the systems that shaped me. But I can rewrite the way I live within them. I can choose to speak to myself with kindness and clarity. I can claim my space, not by shouting or shrinking, but by standing firmly in who I am.
This is my work now: to create a new language for myself, one rooted in compassion and choice. It’s not just about resisting the systems that marginalized me; it’s about building something new—starting with how I speak to myself, and to the world.
The canyon is still here, but it feels different now. It’s not just a place of survival; it’s a place of transformation. I see its beauty and its shadows, its echoes and its silence. And I see myself, standing in its light, unshaken by the fog.
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There is so much vulnerability, and wisdom, and beauty within this reflection, showing us that freedom comes when we start to question the narrative—not to make it wrong, but to understand it wants to transform into something different with love’s reconciling force.