Your voice is a place. Will people stay there or leave?
Let your words build a world worth staying in.
I used to think sounding smart was the goal.
If I said it just right with the perfect phrasing, the polished vocabulary, people would listen. They’d nod, maybe even admire me.
But if you have to explain the brilliance, maybe it’s not.
And if your words don’t change something (a mind, a belief, a habit, a decision), what are they doing?
We live in a world saturated with information, buzzing with endless explanations. And yet, how often do you remember a single sentence?
You can spend six hours online and still not feel seen, still not remembering anything.
So what’s the point of talking smart if nothing lands?
Words that touch vs. words that perform
I catch myself all the time reaching for the clever paraphrasing. Every time I come across a new word, there’s a part of me that wants to use it. My shiny inner voice nudges me: This sounds smart. Use it.
But when I come back to the page after a day or two, it’s the humble inner voice that shows me what matters. It reminds me that being understood (actually helping someone take away something meaningful) is more important than looking clever.
Because sounding smart and being felt? Two different universes.
People may admire what they don’t understand, but they won’t follow it. They won’t remember it. And they definitely won’t change because of it.
What stays with someone?
A sentence that slices through the noise and lands like truth.
The kind of honesty that makes you look away for a second, just to recover.
Words that don’t perform, but recognize.
The line they whisper to themselves when the room goes quiet.
The simplest phrase, repeated like a prayer: you’re not the only one.
Something so simple they always knew it, but needed permission to believe it.
The line that frees something.
The questions that remind them who they are.
So when you're writing, speaking, leading, or just trying to make sense of your own life, maybe ask yourself this: is this performing, or is this touching something real?
Only one of those stays. Only one makes someone feel a little less alone. Choose that one.
Let lived truth lead
Cris shared this rule on his last newsletter and it stuck with me:
Only teach what you’ve lived.
Only say it if it changed you first.
And I want to add one more thing:
If your words don’t scare you just a little, they’re probably not the truth yet.
Start a piece with a sentence your past self needed to hear.
Speak for the version of you that felt small, confused. That’s where resonance begins.
In fiction, there’s this idea of world-building. Tolkien understood it better than anyone: a world must follow its own internal logic, or the magic collapses.
That same principle applies when you speak or write. Break your own truth, and your message loses its weight.
Your voice is a place, one people can walk into. Every time you speak or write, you're inviting someone in. Into a feeling, a memory, a worldview.
And just like walking into a room, people know within seconds if they want to stay. Is it grounded? Does it feel true? Safe? Alive? Or does it feel like something designed to impress rather than invite?
If your words don’t offer something real to stand on, people leave. Not because they’re rude or distracted, but because there are too many rooms to walk into. Too many voices saying too much that doesn’t mean enough.
You don’t have to decorate your ideas, but to build a world so honest, people believe it while they’re inside. A world where someone pauses and says, Damn. I need to sit with this.
Clarity is an act of respect
That’s what we’re after. Not brilliance. Not polish. Not even value. Something alive. Real. Clear.
So, talk like it matters. Write like you mean it. Speak as if someone’s future hinges on the sentence you're about to say.
Because sometimes, it does. And if we’re going to speak at all, let it not be safe. Let it be something no one expects. Let it wake people up. Let it shake the soul.
And let’s not forget that we need knowledge distillation.
We don’t simplify because people can’t handle complexity. We simplify because clarity is an act of respect.
Because the world moves fast, attention is thin, and the human brain remembers what it feels, not what it decodes.
Taking everything you know, everything you’ve lived, and stripping it to the sentence that hits straight in the chest. The kind of truth someone could carry with them into a hard day.
Smart words can impress. But simple words, spoken with lived depth, those connect. Those change people.
And isn’t that the whole point?
Say less. Mean more.
Andreea
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