When Words Carry Weight

8/25/2025 | By: Christina M. Oyola

“What a Word Can Teach Us”

What is a word without a meaning?

Have you ever stopped to ask where a word came from? I’ve always wondered, especially because of what we learned growing up. Our last name was something to be proud of—not because our family tree did anything particularly remarkable, but because the name carried generations of family, love, and working together for the collective, not just the individual.

Of course, as generations go on, some lessons get lost, while others stick. And sometimes, the lesson hits so hard that you end up doing the opposite.

OYOLA is my name. It comes from Puerto Rico. My great-grandfather and grandmother came to Virginia when he joined the Army. My grandfather eventually moved out at a young age and met my grandmother from New Hampshire. Somewhere along the way, the meaning of the name stuck most deeply with my dad. He carried it with such pride.

My dad raised us to be proud of being an Oyola—because you are one. That’s it. Simple as that. Be proud of who you are for no other reason than being alive. What a message. What a gift to give a young mind. Almost every decision I made growing up carried the thought: How will this affect the family name? Not just my name—the collective. Because what one does, another could benefit from… or lose out on.

Today, the word on my heart is biopsy.

It’s a word that only recently started to carry fear for me. I didn’t grow up equating biopsy with cancer. Even when I moved in with my grandparents and cared for my grandmother through her breast cancer diagnosis, I didn’t fully connect those dots. At that time, my focus was split—my grandfather had just lost his second leg, and my personal life was unraveling.

Years ago, I had an upper and lower colonoscopy. I had biopsies then too, but I didn’t process it at all. Panic was high, and I didn’t even realize what was being tested.
Fast forward to last year, when I needed a biopsy on my left breast—that nearly broke me. For the first time, the word carried a weight it never had before. It tested my sobriety. It tested my new habits. It tested me.

But here’s what I’ve learned:

—> A biopsy doesn’t mean cancer—it simply means doctors need a closer look to give us answers.

That perspective helped me stay grounded. Fear often isn’t born from the word itself but from the meaning others place on it. I realized I had picked up other people’s fears and made them my own. How often do we do that in life? Change our minds or add new fears just because we hear more details—or not enough of them?

Sometimes I forget that we’re all independent people with our own views and feelings. I haven’t always been kind. That’s something I’m not proud of. Over the years, I’ve tried to change. I’ve gone back and apologized where I could. And yes, some people still got my ugly side. I’m human. I’ve lived a hard life. That’s not an excuse—it’s the truth.

Some people were toxic then, and they’re still toxic now. The difference is: I’ve put the work in to change.

Does that make me better than them?

                     …No, silly. It just makes me better than the version of me I used to be.

Here’s my challenge for you: find one small habit you can work on to improve your life. Something simple—like opening the door for someone every time you get the chance, no matter how long the hold takes. These small acts build on each other. They create small wins. And small wins build growth.

And let’s be honest—there are some habits I probably won’t change. Because they’re part of who I am. That’s okay too.

Another reminder: pay attention to how you feel after you spend time with people. If they drain you, it may be time to find others who lift you up. We really are the product of our surroundings. If I surround myself with people who think like victims, I’ll slip back into that mindset. Instead, I practice Post-Traumatic Growth.

I “struggle well.” And when I’m not, I ask for help and lean on my practices—breathwork, grounding, honesty.

These days, I tell Matt often: Let’s pick joy instead of complaining about the work it takes to get there.

Because joy isn’t something you just go out and grab. Joy is something you work toward. It’s the pure, steady feeling of reward and satisfaction after walking through what felt like hell.

For me, joy can be as simple as watching a movie under the stars in the backyard. For Matt, that feels like a lot of work—packing, setting up, taking it all down. For me, driving two hours just to soak in a view for less than an hour is worth it. Because joy has never been easy for me. With a trauma mindset for nearly 37 years, joy always required effort.
—->Joy is the deep, steady feeling of gratitude and lightness that comes from within—not from what we have, but from how we live, notice, and grow.

So, what does joy look like to you?
When was the last time you felt pure joy?
And how much work did it take you to get there?

Remember—your joy doesn’t have to match the joy of those around you. Sometimes, the most beautiful moments come when we find joy together in ways that work for both.

So yes, a word can mean so many things—or nothing at all. Biopsy. Joy. Oyola. Each carries weight, and each can shift in meaning depending on how we live them.

And for me, today, they all mean life.