Words don't Teach

Funny that I offer a lot of it, right?

I love writing. It's my magic wand, my pal, my lifeline in crazy weather.

It makes things better, clearer, and for me, it's also a way to share, to pass it forward, the knowledge and insights from my own journey.

But here's the thing: no matter how many words I pour onto the page, how many metaphors I craft, or how I describe life's twists and turns, there's one truth I've come to know. Words don't teach. Only life lessons do.

Now, before you close this article thinking, "Wait, so why bother?" – hang on. I'm not saying words are useless. Far from it. They're the vessels we use to share our experiences, to connect, to inspire. But they're not the teachers. They're more like... signposts. They point the way, but you've got to walk the path yourself.

How many times have you read a self-help book, nodding along, thinking, "Yes, this makes so much sense!" only to find yourself stuck in the same old patterns a week later? Or received well-meaning advice from a friend that you knew was spot-on, but couldn't seem to apply to your own life?

That's because knowledge isn't the same as wisdom. Information isn't understanding. And words, no matter how true or powerful, aren't experience.

Let me share a personal story to explain my point. Years ago, I was on a mission to become more aware - of myself, of others, of the world around me. I read books on mindfulness, consciousness, and self-awareness. I could quote meditation gurus and neuroscientists alike. I understood the concept of being present, of observing without judgment, of the power of focused attention.

But did that knowledge instantly transform me into a beacon of awareness? Nope. Not even close.

What finally made a difference was a series of life experiences that forced me to put those concepts into practice. It was the day I found myself caught in a heated argument and suddenly remembered to pause and observe my own reactions. It was the week I challenged myself to really listen to others without planning my response, even when my mind itched to interrupt. It was the moment I realized I'd walked through a familiar street and noticed details I'd never seen before.

Those were the lessons that stuck. Those were the experiences that transformed my knowledge into wisdom, information into understanding. Each small moment of genuine awareness taught me more than all the books combined.

Recent neuroscience research backs up this idea. Studies have shown that our brains are incredibly plastic, capable of forming new neural pathways throughout our lives. But these changes don't happen just by reading or hearing about something. They happen through experience, practice, and repetition.

Another fascinating study from 2020, published in "Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences," looked at how the brain processes abstract concepts. The researchers found that even when we think about abstract ideas, our brains activate sensory, and motor regions associated with physical experiences. In other words, our brains understand concepts best when they're grounded in real-world experiences.

This is why you can read about the importance of perseverance a hundred times, but it's not until you've pushed through your own challenges that you truly understand its value. It's why you can know intellectually that failure is a part of growth, but it's not until you've picked yourself up after a major setback that you really know.

So, if words don't teach, what's the point of all this writing, all these books, all these conversations? Well, I look at it as seeds. They plant ideas, offer perspectives, and suggest possibilities. But it's up to us to water those seeds with action, to nurture them with experience.

Think of it like cooking. You can read recipe books all day long, memorize techniques, and watch countless cooking shows. But until you get in the kitchen, make a mess, burn a few dishes, and eventually create something delicious, you're not really a cook. The real learning happens when you are elbow-deep in flour, when you're tasting and adjusting seasoning, when you're figuring out how to save a dish that's gone slightly wrong.

Life works the same way. We've got to get our hands dirty. We've got to be willing to make mistakes, to look foolish, to fail spectacularly. Because that's where the gold is. That's where the real lessons lie.

I remember when I first started practicing awareness in my daily life. I thought I'd be instantly transformed into some Zen master, floating through life with perfect rhythm. Ha! Instead, I found myself more aware of just how unaware I usually was. I'd catch myself halfway through a conversation, realizing I hadn't heard a word the other person said because I was lost in my own thoughts. I'd notice how often I reached for my phone out of habit rather than necessity. I'd become acutely aware of the constant chatter in my mind, judging, planning, worrying.

It was uncomfortable. It was humbling. But it was real. And it was teaching me far more than any book ever could.

So where does this leave us as writers, as sharers of ideas, as would-be teachers? In a beautiful paradox, I'd say. We can't directly teach the deepest truths - those have to be lived. But we can invite others to experience. We can create conditions that encourage exploration and growth. We can share our stories in ways that inspire others to write their own.

It's like being a trail guide. We can't walk the path for others, but we can point out interesting features, suggest good places to rest, and warn about potential pitfalls. We can share what we've learned from our own journey, not as absolute truth, but as possibilities to consider.

And here's the magic: in doing so, in sharing our experiences and insights, we often learn even more. Because teaching - or attempting to teach - is itself a profound experience. It challenges us to clarify our thoughts, to question our assumptions, to see things from new perspectives.

I look forward to seeing you in my next article...