It’s amazing how much power a word can have.
Change one word, and the feeling changes. Something confronting can start to sound compassionate. Something that needs a harder conversation can start to feel settled before the conversation has even begun.
That doesn’t mean every change in language is bad. Some words help us speak with more care. Some protect people who really do need protecting.
I can see this in the culture around me, but if I’m honest, I can also see it in myself.
I can call avoidance peace. I can call selfishness self-care. I can call pride having standards. I can call unforgiveness boundaries.
The words may not be completely false. That’s why they work. But they can still hide the part I don’t want to face.
And I wonder if that happens when we start calling freedom a right.
When Freedom Gets a Better Name
Freedom is a gift. But when we rename freedom as a right, it can become a hiding place.
Freedom gives us the power to love, forgive, protect and sacrifice. But it also gives us the power to wound, abandon, exploit and look away. That’s why freedom can never be separated from accountability for very long.
A freedom says, “I can choose this.”
A right says, “I am justified in choosing this.”
They sound similar, but they lead to very different questions.
If I say, “I am free to choose,” the next questions still exist. Should I? Who is affected? What does this choice do to someone else?
But if I say, “It is my right,” any question that follows can start to feel like an intrusion. Concern sounds like control. Disagreement sounds like oppression. The person asking the harder question can be made to look cruel before the question has even been answered.
That’s where the word starts to do more than describe my choice. It starts protecting it.
The Words We Hide Behind
Rights matter. A person needs the right to say no. The right to be treated with dignity. The right not to be controlled, abused, silenced or owned by someone else’s demands. A world without rights quickly becomes a world where the powerful do whatever they want to the vulnerable.
So I’m not arguing against rights. I’m wondering whether we sometimes use the word when we really mean something else.
Maybe we don’t mean, “This is my right.” Maybe we mean, “I want this protected from being questioned.”
That is where language can start to narrow the frame. It can keep my reasons in focus and blur out the person affected by them.
When Choice Becomes Untouchable
In the last few years in particular, we’ve seen how language changed the way a whole society thinks. During Covid, a person who questioned a specific policy could be dismissed as an anti-vaxxer, even if they weren’t against vaccines generally. In gender debates, separating gender from biological sex has reshaped how people speak about men, women, children, schools, sport and family.
Whether someone agrees or disagrees with those changes, the point is hard to miss. A small change in language can move a big conversation.
And the same thing happens in ordinary life.
“My life” can sometimes mean, “I don’t want to face who my happiness may hurt.”
“My truth” can sometimes mean, “I don’t want my version of events questioned.”
“My body, my choice” can sometimes mean, “I don’t want anyone asking whether another life is involved.”
“My right” can sometimes mean, “I want this protected from moral examination.”
Not always. That matters. Some of these words protect real pain, real dignity and real boundaries. But sometimes they also narrow the frame. They keep focus on the person choosing and blur out the person affected by the choice.
That’s why the question cannot simply be, “Am I free to choose?” Of course I am.
The harder question is what my freedom does to someone else.
The question is not only who is choosing. It is who is paying.
Freedom is real, and that is why it carries weight. We are free to choose selfishly or sacrificially. We are free to protect life or dismiss it. We are free to pursue what we want, even when someone else pays the price.
But freedom does not make every choice right.
When the Cost Is Not Hidden
Maybe this is where Christianity brings the question into sharper focus.
So much of our language tries to soften the cost of what we do. The cross does the opposite. It doesn’t hide the damage or pretend our choices are harmless.
But it also shows that God doesn’t stand far away from the damage we cause. He comes close enough to carry what we couldn’t repair ourselves.
And if God doesn’t look away from the cost of freedom, maybe I shouldn’t either.
Maybe the better question isn’t, “Do I have the right?” Maybe that question comes too late, after I’ve already placed myself at the centre.
Maybe the better question is quieter, but harder to avoid.
Who pays for my choice?
And am I willing to see them?
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Author:
Rudy Labordus
Hi, I’m the writer behind Messy Clay — someone just like you, full of questions, awe, and wonder.
This isn’t a place for perfect answers. It’s a space for honest words from the middle of the mess we call life. If you’ve ever felt like you’re still being formed — cracks, rough edges and all — and left with more questions than answers, I hope you’ll feel right at home here.
I’d love for you to get involved — leave a comment, say hello, wrestle with these thoughts. As iron sharpens iron, maybe we can grow together.
