I own a book of magic. You probably have one too. You’ve certainly used one before.
It sits quietly on the shelf. No glowing cover. No ancient lock. No warning label. Just pages – thousands of them – filled not with spells, but with spellings.
It is called a dictionary.
Inside it live words like hope, endure, adapt, begin, and yet. Small words. Ordinary words. But powerful ones. The difference between “I can’t” and “I can’t yet” is only three letters — yet it transforms defeat into possibility.
That is not grammar.
That is magic.
We often imagine magic as something dramatic — lightning bolts, sudden transformations, impossible moments. But real magic works slowly and repeatedly. It works through language we choose again and again.
This magic book sits quietly on a shelf, unassuming and ordinary, mistaken for a reference tool rather than what it truly is: a catalogue of human possibility.
Inside its covers are thousands of incantations waiting to be spoken aloud or written into existence. Every page contains combinations of letters that can comfort, provoke, inspire, heal, or harm.
We call them words, but they behave suspiciously like magic.
Arrange letters one way and you create encouragement.
Arrange them another and you create fear.
Words are not neutral objects; they are active forces. They change chemistry inside minds, inside rooms, inside relationships.
A single sentence can steady someone standing on the edge of despair, while another can linger for years like an unwanted echo. Words travel further than we do. They outlive moments. They always outlive us.
The dictionary reminds us of something profound: magic has always existed – we simply organised it alphabetically.
We are all word wizards – architects of atmosphere and manufacturers of meaning.
Each word is a formula. Each definition a possibility. Each phrase a chemical reaction waiting to happen inside another human mind.
When spoken, words trigger invisible processes: confidence rises, anxiety softens, hope flickers into life.
Neuroscientists might describe neurotransmitters and emotional regulation, but poets have always known the truth – language changes internal weather.
Your words create internal chemistry. Measure well. Mix carefully.
Consider how often a day turns on something small someone says. A quiet “You’ve got this.” A sincere “I understand.” A timely joke that breaks tension. These are not trivial exchanges; they are micro-acts of transformation. Words recalibrate perspective, they tilt outcomes and they have the power to shift emotional gravity.
Yet because language is everywhere, we forget its power. We spend words casually, carelessly, sometimes recklessly.
We fire off comments without recognising that every sentence leaves a residue. Encouragement compounds just as criticism does. Over time, repeated language becomes belief, and belief becomes behaviour.
A careless word can close a door someone was trying desperately to keep open. A thoughtful word can become shelter on a difficult day. Your steadiness, expressed through language, becomes refuge for others.
The dictionary contains both medicine and poison. The difference lies not in the words themselves, but in the intention of the speaker.
To open a dictionary is to witness humanity attempting to name existence itself – love, loss, courage, failure, renewal. Every entry represents generations trying to understand what it means to be alive.
Hidden among the definitions are tools for survival: resilience disguised as vocabulary, hope hidden between syllables, perseverance arranged neatly from A to Z.
We are all, whether we realise it or not, daily spell-casters.
Teachers shaping confidence with feedback. Friends steadying one another through difficult times. Strangers offering unexpected kindness. Parents narrating courage into their children’s futures. Even the words we say privately to ourselves – especially those – become powerful enchantments.
We are all word wizards, casting spells every time we speak and our self-talk may be the most potent magic of all.
Consider how often we narrate our own lives:
“I’m struggling.”
“I’m surviving.”
“I’m learning.”
“I’m rebuilding.”
Each sentence becomes a spell we place upon ourselves. Repeat a word often enough and it becomes belief. Repeat a belief often enough and it becomes behaviour. Behaviour, repeated long enough, becomes identity.
The words we choose are not descriptions of reality; they are instructions to it.
This is why care with language matters.
The dictionary gives us access to millions of possible responses to life. We may not control events, diagnoses, setbacks, or surprises, but we retain authorship over the language we use to meet them.
Open the book. Choose carefully. Speak intentionally.
Because we are all word wizards – apprentices and masters at the same time – carrying a spellbook in plain sight, quietly shaping the world one sentence at a time.
Speak hope. Cast courage. Summon calm.
Enjoyed reading this? Please consider donating to my GoFundMe and help support me through my own cancer journey: https://gofund.me/2a6d5199