The Words We Choose, the Worlds we Create: How Language Shapes Our Connection to Nature

One afternoon, as I watched my son build a terrarium, I casually said, “You can add more dirt to support the plant roots.” Then I paused—dirt. The word echoed strangely in my mind. Why did it feel like a dismissal? As I reflected, I realized something quietly profound: that single word carried with it centuries of cultural conditioning, subtly reinforcing a mindset of separation from the Earth.

“Dirt” suggests something to be cleaned off our shoes, something to be scrubbed away. But what my son was holding in his hands was soil—the living skin of the Earth, rich with microbial life, memory, and potential. That small slip of the tongue opened a doorway for me into a deeper contemplation of how language itself may be part of our disconnection from the natural world.

Language: The Mirror of Our Mindset

Words are not passive. They are living containers of worldview. The way we speak about nature often reveals—and reinforces—how we feel about it.

Consider these pairs:

    •    Dirt vs. Soil

    •    Weeds vs. Medicinal plants

    •    Pests vs. Companion species

    •    Natural resources vs. Earth’s gifts

The first word in each pair carries a tone of domination, reduction, or utilitarianism. The second invites relationship, respect, and reciprocity. And this matters deeply, because when language flattens the living world into objects or commodities, we forget that we are of the Earth—not above it.

The Legacy of Disconnection

Much of modern language evolved during periods of colonization, industrialization, and scientific rationalism. These historical forces encouraged humanity to view nature as a set of objects to be controlled, extracted, and managed—not as kin. Forests became “lumber.” Wetlands became “swamps.” Wild animals became “game.” What we once related to with reverence, we began to quantify, dominate, and exploit.

Indigenous languages often reflect an entirely different orientation—where rivers are relatives, animals are teachers, and the sun is a being who gives life. In such languages, verbs of connection and reciprocity are prioritized over nouns of ownership and categorization.

Children and the Language of Nature

As a mother, this realization struck me even more deeply. Every word we choose around children shapes their understanding of the world. When we say a spider is “gross” or a patch of moss is “just weeds,” we unconsciously pass on disconnection.

But what if we instead said:

    •    “That spider is weaving its dream.”

    •    “This moss is a little forest sponge.”

    •    “The soil is full of sleeping seeds.”

Language becomes a spell. It can either enchant us into relationship or numb us into disinterest.

Reclaiming Our Words, Reweaving Connection

The good news is we can begin right where we are, simply by paying attention. We can:

    •    Choose words of wonder instead of wariness.

    •    Speak of the Earth as a being, not a backdrop.

    •    Practice gratitude in our vocabulary: “the gifts of the forest,” “the wisdom of water,” “the breath of trees.”

In doing so, we don’t just change our speech—we change our perception. And from there, our actions naturally begin to shift.

A Living Invitation

Our planet is alive, speaking in rustles, rhythms, and rainfall. When we slow down and soften our language, we can hear it again. We can become participants in the symphony, not just spectators.

And maybe, just maybe, we’ll raise a generation who doesn’t call soil “dirt”—but who sees it as sacred, alive, and worthy of love.

This reflection is part of my broader work in psychodermatology and nature-based healing—honoring the living skin of the Earth as we honor the living skin of our bodies.