Words Can’t Be Unspoken: A Reflection of Love, Regret, and the Power of the Tongue

Words Can’t Be Unspoken: A Reflection of Love, Regret, and the Power of the Tongue

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

Words. They are invisible arrows, sometimes dipped in honey and other times laced in poison. They leave no bruises that the eye can see, but their wounds can linger for years, sometimes even a lifetime. I’ve come to know this truth deeply, not through books or sermons, but through pain pain I carry in my chest every day like a folded letter I can never unread.

There’s a saying, a proverb whispered in wisdom circles:

“The tongue has no bones, but it is strong enough to break a heart. So be careful with your words.”

It’s easy too easy to let emotions become the driver of our tongue. Anger, fear, pride, frustration, and stress they bubble up inside us like a boiling pot, and then, without a lid, we spill. We lash out with phrases we think are justified in the heat of the moment, but we forget one sacred thing: words, once spoken, cannot be unsaid.

I learned this lesson the hardest way possible. It was a Sunday. A day many associate with rest and peace. My mother, Marva a powerful, loving woman of God stopped by my place on Frenchman Street after church. She brought food, as she often did, but more than that, she brought care. She saw I was struggling and tried to offer advice. I was caught up in my own situation young, arrogant, thinking I knew everything. We exchanged heated words. I raised my voice. She raised hers. I told her I didn’t need her opinion. She cried. She walked out. I called her hours later, and she didn’t answer. She didn’t respond to my texts. That was the last time I spoke to my mother. That night… she died.

Do you know the weight of that? The heaviness of knowing the final gift you handed someone you loved was a bitter argument? I’ve carried that weight every day. If I could go back, I would have listened. I would have held her hand. I would have swallowed my pride and let her speak. But time only moves forward. You can’t rewind it. That is why I now guard my words like sacred fire. Because they are.

I made a vow that day: I will never again use my mouth or my pen to hurt those I love. No matter the situation, no matter how I feel. Because people, especially those who matter most, are more fragile than they appear. And while bones heal, broken hearts often do not.

There’s a parable I once heard. It goes like this:

A young man, angry at his father, shouted cruel words in a fit of rage. Later, feeling ashamed, he asked his father for forgiveness. The father nodded, handed him a bag of nails, and told him to hammer one into the fence every time he lost his temper. Over the weeks, the boy drove in many nails. Eventually, he learned control. The father then told him to pull out a nail for every day he held his peace. The boy did so until all the nails were gone. The father then took him to the fence and said, “You’ve done well, but look at the holes. The fence will never be the same.”

That story pierced me. Because people are like that fence. We may forgive. We may even heal. But the scars of cruel words remain. Some wounds are too deep to fade. That’s why I say: choose silence over shouting, kindness over sarcasm, patience over pride. Do not cut people with your tongue just because your spirit is temporarily wounded. Don’t use your mouth as a weapon when it was meant to be a vessel of healing, hope, and truth.

My mother, Marva, was my biggest supporter. She backed my writings, helped with my book signings, called me daily just to inspire and pray. When I got into legal trouble, she stood by me like a defense attorney and spiritual warrior combined. When my first play was performed, she sat front row eyes glowing, proud, present. She sacrificed. She gave. She loved without condition. And I took her for granted.

So many of us do. We get caught up in our ego, convinced we’re always right. We forget the tears they cried for us, the food they cooked, the bills they paid, the prayers they whispered in the quiet of night when we couldn’t hear them. We grow impatient, snappy, dismissive. We let small irritations become big explosions. And we forget the basic truth: tomorrow is not promised.

My final words to my mother were not “I love you.” They were words of anger, of pride. I live with that, and I don’t want you to. So I say to you now with all the compassion in my soul:

Don’t let your tongue become your regret.

Speak slowly. Listen deeply. Even when you're angry especially when you're angry pause and breathe. When you feel like lashing out, remember: the person in front of you may be carrying more pain than you can see. They may not recover from what you say.

Life is too short to be fighting every day. Words should be used to build bridges, not burn them. To lift people, not crush them. To speak life, not death.

So the next time your heart starts racing and your mind starts flaring with “Let me tell them how I feel” ask yourself this:

Is it worth it? Will this heal or hurt? Will this help or haunt?

And above all, remember this ancient truth:

“A soft answer turns away wrath, but harsh words stir up anger.” Proverbs 15:1

Let love guide your tongue. Let wisdom anchor your tone. Let grace be your language. And if you love someone tell them. While they can still hear it. While you can still speak it.

May your words never be your sorrow. May they be your legacy of peace.

Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar