The Words We Live By

We Live By

December 27, 2025

Beginning the Four Agreements
 

“Language is not a subject. It is the medium in which we live.”
— Wendell Berry

The Words That Stay

Language is not something most of us ever imagined we would have to reckon with. We learned to speak early, learned what to say and what not to say, and then moved on. Words became tools—useful, sometimes sharp, often careless. Over time, we spoke thousands of them without much reflection, assuming they would disappear as soon as they were uttered.
 

But words do not disappear. They linger. They settle into relationships, into memory, into the conversations we carry with ourselves. And later in life, when fewer things feel disposable, we begin to notice that language has always been doing more work than we realized.
 

A Simple Book That Waits for Us

That may be one reason a little book like The Four Agreements has endured. Its language is plain. Its tone is calm. Nothing about it feels pressing or trendy. And yet it keeps finding readers—often at moments when life is asking for fewer answers and better attention.
 

Ruiz frames his book around four “agreements,” a word choice that matters. These are not rules to be enforced or ideals to be perfected. They are understandings we enter into with ourselves, knowing we will forget them, violate them, and return again. Their simplicity is not a shortcut. It is an invitation to slow down.
 

The first agreement—Be impeccable with your word—is often misunderstood. It can sound like a call to politeness or verbal discipline, as though the task were to say only the right things in the right way. But impeccability, in its true sense, has less to do with correctness and more to do with care. It asks not for perfection, but for attention.
 

What It Means to Be Impeccable

Words carry weight because they shape the world they enter. They shape the room, the relationship, the silence that follows. They also shape the inner dialog of our own lives. Many of the most enduring sentences we live with were never spoken aloud at all. They were rehearsed quietly, repeated until they sounded like truth.
 

As the years pass, that inner voice often grows louder. Not always kinder—just more familiar. We replay old conversations. We relive moments when we said too much or not enough. We adopt judgments that once belonged to others and speak them now in our own voice. To be impeccable with our word, then, is not only about what we say to others, but how we speak to ourselves when no one is listening.
 

This is also where many of us begin to feel the cost of careless speech—not only our own, but that of others. Words spoken decades ago can still exert influence. A single dismissive remark from a parent. A casual cruelty from a teacher. A sentence uttered in anger that became, somehow, a verdict. These words do not fade simply because time has passed. They persist because language, once absorbed, reshapes perception.
 

To be impeccable with our word, then, is not merely a forward-looking practice. It is also a form of reckoning. It asks us to notice which words we have carried unquestioned, which ones we have mistaken for fact, and which ones we have repeated to ourselves long after the speaker has gone silent. Some of the most damaging language in our lives is secondhand—and yet we speak it fluently.
 

This is why impeccability cannot mean purity. It cannot mean that we always say the right thing or that we will never cause harm. It means we are willing to pause. To examine intent. To recognize when speech is being used to protect ego rather than to convey truth. Later in life, this distinction becomes harder to avoid. We have seen enough outcomes to know that words are never neutral.
 

There is a temptation, especially as we age, to justify bluntness as honesty. To excuse harsh speech by calling it realism. But honesty without care is not integrity; it is exposure without responsibility. Impeccability asks more of us than candor. It asks for discernment—for an awareness of how our words will land, not just how they feel leaving our lips.
 

Impeccability also respects timing. A word can be accurate and still do damage. It can be sincere and still be unnecessary. Wisdom—especially later in life—often shows itself not in saying more, but in knowing when to wait, when to soften, when to let silence do the work speech cannot.
 

Aging has a way of clarifying this without instruction. Energy changes. Priorities narrow. Fewer conversations feel worth winning. Fewer opinions feel urgent. What begins to matter instead is whether our words leave something whole—or at least unharmed.
 

There is also the recognition that words cannot be taken back. Apologies help, but they do not erase. Praise can heal, but it cannot undo years of quiet diminishment. This is not a reason for fear or self-censorship. It is simply a reminder that speech either builds or erodes the shared ground between us.
 

The Long Work of Repair

Not every word we regret can be unsaid, and not every silence can be filled. Later in life, we come to understand this more fully. We have lived long enough to know that some conversations end unfinished, some apologies arrive too late, and some truths never find their proper moment. Impeccability does not promise closure. It insists on responsibility.
 

This is where the agreement becomes less about discipline and more about mercy. For others, yes—but also for ourselves. Many of us are still carrying guilt over words spoken in fear or anger, sentences that escaped us before we understood their weight. To live impeccably now does not require reliving those moments endlessly. It asks us to speak differently going forward, with greater care born of experience.
 

There is something hopeful in that. Aging does not erase our verbal history, but it does give us a longer view. We begin to see patterns. We recognize which words escalated conflict and which ones steadied it. Which phrases shut people down. Which ones invited return. This awareness is not self-improvement. It is wisdom earned the right way.
 

Ruiz does not pretend this agreement is easy. None of the four are. But this first one sets the tone for all that follows. It suggests that transformation does not begin with grand gestures or new beliefs, but with the smallest unit of human exchange: a word, placed with care.
 

Perhaps that is why language feels different now than it once did. Not heavier, exactly—but more precious. More revealing. Less willing to be thrown away. We begin to sense that every word carries a trace of who we are becoming.
 

As we begin this series, there is no need to master these agreements or measure ourselves against them. They are not benchmarks. They are mirrors. They invite reflection more than effort. It is enough to notice. To listen more closely. To become curious about the words we use most often—and the ones we avoid.
 

Some words wound. Some heal. Some simply remain.
 

The question is not whether we will speak.
 

It is how.
 

Coming Next in This Series

Over the next three Sundays, we’ll continue this slow reflection on The Four Agreements
 

Next week, we’ll consider the second agreement—Don’t Take Anything Personally—and why it may be the most difficult practice of all in a world that feels increasingly reactive.
 In the third week, we’ll turn to Don’t Make Assumptions, exploring how much emotional energy is spent filling in stories that were never ours to tell.
  In the final week, we’ll reflect on the fourth agreement—Always Do Your Best—and how its meaning changes as our strength, capacities, and expectations evolve with age.
  Taken together, these agreements are not a program for improvement. They are an invitation to live with a little more care, clarity, and freedom—one word, one moment at a time.