Words Don’t Mean What You Think They Do
How language shapes and reshapes our reality
You're probably not thinking about it, but every time you speak, you're participating in a centuries-long experiment in collective meaning-making. Words don't just communicate: they evolve, and we're all unwitting lab assistants in the process.
This isn't some abstract linguistic theory. It's happening right now, in real time, in ways that would probably horrify the people who first used these words.
Take "girl." In Middle English, it meant any young person: boy or girl, didn't matter. The gendering happened later, through usage patterns we can only guess at. Someone, somewhere, started using it specifically for young women, and the change stuck.
Or "bully": originally a term of endearment, like calling someone "sweetheart." The shift to its current meaning happened gradually, through contexts and connotations that accumulated over centuries until the original meaning became unrecognisable.
These aren't random changes. They're the linguistic equivalent of geological drift: imperceptible in the moment, revolutionary over time.
Here's something that might make you uncomfortable: most major semantic shifts happen because people misunderstood words, and then kept misunderstanding them until the misunderstanding became the truth.
"Egregious" once meant "remarkably good": something that stood out from the crowd in a positive way. But people started using it ironically for things that stood out for being terrible. The irony died, but the negative meaning survived.
"Artificial" used to mean "skillfully made": something crafted with art and intention. Now it mostly means "fake" or "not natural," which is almost the opposite of its original meaning.
The pattern is consistent: misunderstanding + repetition + time = new meaning. Language doesn't evolve through careful consideration. It evolves through the accumulated weight of how people actually use it.
Dictionaries are fascinating because they reveal how language actually works versus how we pretend it works. They're not prescriptive: they're descriptive. They don't create meaning; they document it after everyone else has already decided what words mean.
By the time "ghosting" or "gaslighting" or "vibe check" makes it into Merriam-Webster, these words have already shaped countless conversations and relationships. The dictionary is just acknowledging what's already happened.
This lag isn't a bug: it's a feature. It shows that language belongs to its speakers, not to institutions. Every word that feels "new" or "wrong" to older generations is actually evidence of language working exactly as it's supposed to.
Language is probably humanity's most successful collective project. We all agree to pretend that certain sounds correspond to certain concepts, and somehow this mass coordination allows us to build civilizations, fall in love, and argue about whether cereal is soup.
But the agreement is more fragile than we like to admit. Right now, words like "woke" or "freedom" or "violence" mean completely different things to different groups. When these shared fictions break down, we don't just lose words—we lose the ability to understand each other.
This is why semantic drift matters. It's not just about words changing: it's about the constant renegotiation of shared meaning that makes society possible.
Every time you use a word in a slightly new way, you're casting a vote for what it means. Every time you understand someone else's usage, you're ratifying their innovation. Every time you're confused by how someone else uses a word, you're witnessing the negotiation process in real time.
The "correct" definition of any word is really just the most recent consensus about what it means. And that consensus is always provisional, always shifting, always one viral moment away from transformation.
This should feel empowering. You're not just consuming language: you're actively creating it. The words you use today will influence how they're understood tomorrow. The ways you bend meaning to fit your experiences will become part of the historical record.
Language isn't something that happens to you. It's something you do, every day, in collaboration with everyone else who speaks it.
The question isn't whether language is changing: it's whether we're conscious of our role in changing it. Because whether we notice or not, we're all writing the dictionary of the future.
Language lives in the mouths of its speakers, not in the pages of grammar books. Every generation inherits words and bends them to fit their world. The words that feel timeless and "correct" to us were once innovations that horrified previous generations.
We're living through one of the most rapid periods of linguistic change in human history. Social media has accelerated the pace of semantic drift, compressed the timeline between innovation and adoption, and given us front-row seats to watch meaning shift in real time.
This isn't something to resist or lament. It's something to marvel at. You're witnessing the raw mechanics of human communication, the endless creativity of ordinary people finding new ways to say what they mean.
And you're not just witnessing it. You're part of it. Every word you choose, every meaning you negotiate, every time you understand someone else's linguistic innovation: you're helping to shape what English becomes next.
That's not a responsibility to take lightly. It's a privilege worth celebrating.
Until next time
-xoxo Rhi