There was a time when I was really bad at speaking.
I don’t mean I couldn’t form sentences. I mean I didn’t know how to use my words properly.
I stated opinions as if they were objective facts. I was blunt, abrasive, and way too confident about shit I barely understood. Everything was good or bad, right or wrong, smart or stupid. And if you disagreed with me, there was a decent chance I’d mentally put you on the enemy team.
The result?
People didn’t seem to like me very much.
I actually think some of them wanted to like me, but I wouldn’t allow them to. Of course, back then I probably would’ve told myself I was just “too honest” and people couldn’t handle the truth.
Turns out, I was just kind of a prick.
My way of speaking also made my writing shit. And yes, I’m saying that like it’s an objective fact. Haha.
There was no context. No nuance. No possibility that I might be wrong.
Mexico Gave Me a Factory Reset
Then I moved to Mexico and basically had to learn how to speak all over again.
I moved here on a whim—about 30 days of “planning,” none of which I bothered using to learn Spanish. I figured I’d be fine because I knew useful phrases like ¿Dónde está el baño? and Me gusta la cerveza.
Real useful shit.
For my first few years here, I felt like I’d lost 50 IQ points. I couldn’t reliably order mineral water with a glass of ice. I couldn’t explain to the butcher how thick I wanted my bacon sliced. Half the time I just pointed at something, butchered a few Spanish words, hoped for the best, and accepted whatever showed up.
I went from feeling like a super genius who understood how the world worked to feeling like the dumbest person in the room.
It was a factory reset.
And being forced to learn how to speak again made me pay attention to something I’d barely thought about before:
The words themselves.
One Word Was Quietly Screwing Up My Worldview
As my Spanish improved, I started noticing how often I used one tiny word:
“Is.”
A Mexican friend might ask what I thought about a certain food, city, neighborhood, or tradition, and I’d respond:
“It’s gross. It’s dirty. It’s weird.”
But weird according to who?
Usually, “weird” just meant unfamiliar to me.
There’s a big difference between saying “It’s weird” and “I think it’s weird.”
One sounds like you’re announcing a fact.
The other acknowledges that you’re describing your interpretation.
That distinction became especially obvious living in another country. Something completely normal to a Mexican might seem strange to me, just as something completely normal in American culture might seem fucking bizarre to them.
So imagine some gringo showing up in Mexico and announcing:
“It’s gross. It’s dirty. It’s weird.”
No wonder people’s body language sometimes changed.
They rarely said anything, but I imagine at least a few were thinking:
Stupid fucking gringo. If you don’t like it, go home.
Looking back, I wouldn’t blame them.
“Not Everything Has to Be So Black and White”
Eventually, I started dating a woman who was very successful financially and socially.
I was hard to impress and even harder to persuade back then, but I was impressed by her. She had a great lifestyle and unusually strong friendships, so when she offered advice, I listened.
She was also attempting to groom this wild gringo into potential husband material, which was probably a full-time job.
One thing she told me stuck:
“Not everything has to be so black and white. There’s a better way to say things.”
This usually came immediately after I’d said something politically charged.
And she was right.
There was a better way to say things.
Not a weaker way.
Not a more politically correct way.
A more accurate way.
We eventually broke up.
That idea stayed with me.
Then I Discovered Semantics
I’ve written before about what I call information downloads—those times when life seems to drop exactly what I need to learn in front of me.
One of those downloads was a strong urge to study semantics: how words create and communicate meaning.
So I followed it.
I watched lectures, read books, and started paying much closer attention to the language I used.
Eventually I realized that a lot of arguments aren’t really disagreements about reality.
They’re disagreements about people’s interpretations of reality.
That changed the way I spoke.
Instead of:
“Mexico is ______.”
I’d say:
“Based on my experience living in Mexico…”
Instead of:
“XYZ is true.”
I’d say:
“Based on the information I’ve gathered, my current belief is XYZ—but I’m open to being persuaded otherwise.”
Some people might think that’s unnecessarily careful.
I don’t.
I think it’s more accurate.
Because it acknowledges something my younger self couldn’t seem to understand:
My opinion is not reality.
It’s my current interpretation of reality based on the information available to me.
And it can change.
The Unexpected Side Effect: People Liked Me More
Here’s the funny part:
I wasn’t trying to become more likable.
I was trying to become more accurate.
Becoming more likable was a side effect.
People became more receptive to me. Conversations became more interesting. People who disagreed with me could still enjoy talking to me.
More people started calling me their friend.
And instead of occasionally getting the pinche gringo treatment, I started hearing something very different:
“Man, you’re Mexican now.”
I hadn’t become less opinionated.
I stopped confusing conviction with certainty.
You can have strong beliefs without pretending you’re omniscient. You can disagree with someone without turning them into an enemy. You can say something is disgusting to you without declaring that everyone who enjoys it has defective taste buds.
That’s not watering yourself down.
That’s learning how to make your words work for you instead of against you.
Your Words Build Your Worldview
But this eventually became bigger than learning how to talk to people.
Words don’t just affect how other people interpret you.
They affect how you interpret the world.
If you constantly tell yourself:
“This is terrible.”
“I’m a failure.”
“People are stupid.”
“The world is fucked.”
you’re not merely describing your experience.
You’re reinforcing one particular interpretation of it.
Change the language—
“I don’t understand this yet.”
“This didn’t work.”
“I disagree.”
“Based on what I currently know…”
—and suddenly you’ve left room for new information.
That’s why I’m much more careful about the words I use today.
Not because I’m afraid of offending people.
Not because I want everyone to agree with me.
And definitely not because I’ve stopped having strong opinions.
I’ve simply stopped confusing my opinions with reality.
Ironically, once I stopped speaking as though I already knew everything, people became far more interested in hearing what I had to say.
So if you want to be more liked, respected, and—most importantly—heard, don’t automatically make your opinions softer.
Make your language more precise.
Because the words you use don’t just tell other people how you see the world.
They’re helping build the worldview you see it through.
Your man,
Uncle Blayde