I don’t get to say how other people decide to refer to themselves. How someone defines their relationship to their disease or to themselves is none of my business. I don’t get to make decisions about language on behalf of anyone.

I do, however, get to decide how I refer to myself and to living with inflammatory bowel disease (IBD). I do get to be intentional about the words I use in my writing to describe these illnesses and how I see them in the context of the broader world. I do make decisions about the phrasing I choose to use in my work to create educational material for people living with digestive disease.

In short: I do get to have my own opinion about words. Words are a huge part of my life after all, and I spend so much time arranging them into the best possible version I can envision. Before I use a phrase, I try to look at it critically and think about why it came to mind. Where did the phrase come from? Are the origins based in, for instance, misogyny or racism? (Try researching “rule of thumb” or “peanut gallery,” and you’ll see what I mean.)

When considering the broader context of a phrase, its history, and the current understanding of its meaning: does it make sense to use it? Sometimes, the answer to that question is a resounding no, because those words are associated with harm. Language is constantly evolving and writers need to keep up with it.

And right now, I’m of the opinion that we should break the habit of using the language of war to describe chronic illness.

What I Mean By “Language of War”

Attack. Battle. Combat. Fight. Triggered. Warrior. These are the types of words to which I’m referring.

How often have we heard or read that a person is “fighting” an illness or that they “lost their battle” against an disease. It’s so common that I’m not sure we think about these words critically anymore.

We often think of illnesses, Crohn’s disease and ulcerative colitis included, as invaders. Our digestive systems are out to get us. They’re noncompliant, they’re angry, they’re trying to kill us. We describe parts of ourselves as if they are alien and even sentient. Capable of making decisions and plotting against us.

But that’s not true. Our bodies are not fighting us. Not really. They don’t have a consciousness that’s put to some nefarious purpose. IBD is the result of an inflammatory process. It’s a complex condition that starts with our genes, is activated by one or more factors that we don’t yet fully understand, and which we might not even have control over.

IBD just happens.

I don’t think it’s helpful to anthropomorphize our digestive systems as being hostile. It automatically puts us in conflict instead of working towards harmony. If you think of your own body in harsh terms, how does that help it to heal?

I’m an unlikely proponent of positive thinking; I’m certainly not adept at it, nor do I practice it regularly. But I have been in the position of having my body break down and need help in order to stay alive. I’m of the opinion that thinking of it as “fighting” me is not helpful, and that I will be better served by sending my body understanding and support.

IBD “Warrior”

I’m a lot of things, but I don’t think of myself as a warrior. Because what does that even mean in the digestive disease space? I don’t envision myself as being in a cosmic battle against an internal inflammatory process.

It makes me uncomfortable when someone refers to me as a “warrior.” But again, it’s become such a common term, there’s no escaping it. When I entered into the online space as a writer in 2000, after having undergone j-pouch surgery, people with IBD did not refer to themselves as warriors.

At some point over the last 10 years, it has become ubiquitous to refer to each other as warriors. But again, I’m not interested in fighting my own body as a warrior. I don’t want to frame my life in terms of violence.

Questioning Our Language

It’s not only in the IBD space. The language of war and violence is used in so many places to describe the work of overcoming obstacles.

Consider the phrase “You’re killing it.” What is being killed? Is killing a good thing? Why are we equating killing with success? It doesn’t resonate with me. What’s more, it’s not descriptive.

I am questioning why we turn to this language that implies violence. There is real violence in our world. It’s on display every day. I can’t go on social media without seeing things I’d rather not, because there is so much violence taking place in our world. Why are we taking these terms to ourselves, when what we want is not war or battle but to live fulfilling lives free of disabling symptoms and pain?

I think it’s worth examining what is considered usual and customary. It’s worth questioning why we are doing and saying the things that we do. Asking why we’re comfortable reaching for phrases and terms because they’re convenient, without considering their origins and impacts.

But again: I don’t get to decide anything for another person. What I hope for, however, is to bring a focus to intent. Our words matter, and we should consider them carefully. Especially when we are ambassadors of the IBD community to the rest of the world.

It’s not a given that certain language and phrases need to be used to describe the journey with chronic illness. We should use what is most appropriate for us, but it should be done with deliberation and care.

For myself, I’ve left instructions that my obituary should not contain phrases such as “she lost her battle with…” Because I’m not fighting a battle, and therefore I can’t lose one.