As a child, I knew the rhyme was a lie. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me. I tried it on my tongue, wondering how it made it through centuries of playgrounds, never silenced from the language. Was it a possibility for anyone? My brothers, maybe? Words held more force than any weapon I could imagine.

 

If words could never hurt, could they comfort? It seemed unlikely they could do one but not the other. That would be magic indeed. I tested the rhyme’s strength a few times, responding to a taunt or a cruel comment. It did make me feel smug to say it, but the effect was superficial. Those purposeful jabs from a bully’s mouth left a bruise that hurt whenever it was touched.

 

Sometimes, the words were called a tease, and I was framed as a bad sport for not understanding the joke in it. Other times, I was told they didn’t really mean it. Then why was it said? Often, I was called too sensitive. Sticks and stones would annihilate me if puny words could do this much harm.

 

Words are never just words. They are routes to meaning, to exploration, to other perspectives. They paint pictures for us of beauty, threat, passion, disgust, and emotions difficult to express. Their use is best attended to with care.

 

One young child has been seeing me in clinic. At first, they only glared and played with their phone, refusing to respond. The parent was concerned that the child was always angry, hating school, and not liking home much, either. Over a few visits, we’ve tolerated each other, and gradually they’ve uncoiled. Recently, they initiated a visit, wanting to talk. I saw a different child this time—one with an open face, sweet eyes, and a hesitant but hopeful expression.

 

With tears and words, they told me of the school bully who made every day impossible. The boy used “bad words” and mocked the child, even though staff and parents at the school had received complaints. The child’s only resource was to hide and cry, or to skip school completely. The adults didn’t treat it as an issue of major concern, or at least one not in their control. The victim was counseled to not let it soak in. Ignoring the bad behavior was supposed to be of help.

 

Ignoring is rarely a remedy. It does allow some distance to develop, and that can be a temporary fix. Eventually, this child won’t have to share a classroom with the tyrant. But in not paying attention to the provocation, we also don’t pay attention to the injury. The child felt so much less valued than the bully. No one was coming to their defense. Where were the healing words?

 

I don’t know how we train people to be better at offering up healing words in the face of harm. My patient just needed to be seen, acknowledged as precious, told that we will keep trying to silence the bully’s taunts. Children should be recognized for the struggles they live through, have companions in the pain, and have someone see their worth as individuals with a hidden story. Telling a child it will get better, without changing the present moment, is of little comfort.

 

I have found it helps to say something along the lines of “That is so sad and painful.” Or “It is brave of you to tell me. I’m proud of you, even if that doesn’t get rid of the bully quite yet. You deserve better treatment than that. They must be messed up to say things like that.”

 

Recently, I had a taste of this child’s experience. A wonderful friend had just died. It was a shared sorrow with many from around the world, as we all had studied together at one point. The family was raw with grief and yet facing many situations that required immediate attention.

 

In the midst of this fresh loss, an email came my way. The subject line was the name of my departed friend. The first paragraph held an introduction from a stranger, someone who had heard of the loss and the need. They said they had found me through reading a post I wrote that my friend shared some time ago. I started to anticipate a kindness, that somehow this stranger wanted to help and was reaching out to me to convey that.

 

Just at that point of vulnerability, the tone changed. The writer pivoted, letting loose several lines of vitriol, calling me an arrogant moron, a quack, a nitwit, and some other less humorous names. He determined that because I posted about the scientific understandings of COVID, as they became known over time, that I was the personification of evil. He mocked my schools, work, and care for autistic children. He blamed my support of immunizations on most of the causes of death and disability in the Western world. At least he asked for God to have mercy on my soul

 

Despite the routine receipt of this sort of hate-filled speech in the pandemic, the timing of this attack felt different. It took me by surprise. My heart was already softened as I thought about my friend and his sweet family. The day was full of autism appointments as well as some meetings about desperately troubled youth. Everywhere I looked, there was tragedy and great suffering. It was too much, and those words of his landed just as he intended.

 

At first, I was incredulous. How could he feel so free to do this? Then I got defensive—he is the smug and arrogant one! Then I just felt really sad and very tired. There is so much need, and this person isn’t helping. If he really has so much time and energy, can’t he look for a way to help?

 

I wasn’t going to mention it. I didn’t reply to him. I thought I’d ignore the whole thing. But then something special happened. I showed it to two colleagues. Their reactions were immediate, forceful and compassionate. They simultaneously were disgusted with the writer and fiercely protective of me. The power of his words started to diminish.

 

My daughter then read it and saw a way to turn the tables on him using his own language. We all laughed as she complimented me on my prowess. I shared a tiny portion on Facebook, just to show that there are still troubled trolls on social media. The response took me by surprise—person after person was angry on my behalf, generous in naming the goodness of my work and care, and full of words of comfort.

 

The responses were like a big wave that landed on the shore where the man’s ugly words had built a sinister sandcastle. The momentum of supportive language came crashing down on that beached castle, erasing every trace. It is truly amazing to feel how the original hurt has been carried away and replaced with a calm prevailing goodness, and a surer sense of community.

 

I’m hoping for my little patient. I’m going to try to surround them with life-giving words. Maybe if enough of us can keep gathering around the vulnerable ones, the bullies will only ever be in possession of shifting sand, an impermanent presence always overcome by the next tide of goodness. Let’s use our words to heal the world.