In life, not everyone will call us by names that uplift or inspire. Often, people—some of whom are even close friends—will use harsh, degrading terms meant to cut deep. Their words are not innocent. They are laced with malice, fueled by jealousy or ignorance, aimed at breaking our spirits and derailing our vision.
Verbal abuse, when allowed to settle in the heart, becomes a dangerous seed. It grows into insecurity, bitterness, and self-doubt. And if not confronted with truth and courage, it begins to shape a person’s identity.
There are many who have allowed themselves to be defined by what others have called them. They walk through life in the shadow of those cruel words, not realizing they’ve handed over the pen that writes their story to someone else. The question I pose is: Have you let name calling dictate how you think, live, or act?
I speak from experience. When I finished primary school, my academic journey did not immediately continue into high school education. Challenges at home delayed my progress, but there was a fire in my heart that never went out.
Even though the path was blocked, the yearning for education remained. I couldn’t quite explain why, but something deep within me longed to read, to learn, to pursue something greater. Year after year, as I stayed home watching others progress, my desire only intensified.
Finally, after eight long years, I made the decision to act. I obeyed the voice within me and enrolled myself in high school. I was the oldest student in that school, almost the age of some teachers. I joined them carrying more than books in my hands—I carried dreams in my heart and wounds from my past.
Every evening, as I walked home in my school uniform, I encountered ridicule. Men and women, some even familiar faces, hurled demeaning words my way. There were two types of mockery that I particularly remember. One group used to call me “guka uria uracokire cukuru”—the grandfather who went back to school. Another group taunted me, questioning why someone like me would return to the books. They said I was wasting time. They called me a fool, pointing to countless young men and women in our village who had certificates and diplomas but no jobs. They asked, "What difference will you make?"
Sometimes, their arguments seemed to carry weight. It’s true many were unemployed despite their education. It’s true my family’s background was humble. But they underestimated the strength of vision. They never imagined I would go beyond secondary school, let alone qualify for a university government sponsorship.
For the four years I was in secondary school, I endured verbal assaults that could have broken a weaker mind. I was laughed at, ridiculed, and shamed. Some people seemed to wait eagerly for the day I would drop out, return to the village, and prove them right. But God had a different story for me. I passed my exams. I succeeded.
Had I listened to them, I would have given up. Their words were heavy. They targeted my weaknesses, my past, and my family’s limitations. They spoke facts—but not truth. And that distinction is important. The facts may be accurate, but they don’t have to define the future. I chose not to let their voices set my direction. I stayed committed to my vision, to that fire inside that kept me going. I ignored them. And today, the same people who once called me names now call me munene—the great one. They ask favors. They seek advice. They speak highly of me. How quickly the narrative changes when you refuse to let insults determine your destiny.
One of the greatest tragedies is allowing the cruel words of others to write the story of your life. Just because people speak doesn’t mean they speak truth. In my community, there’s a saying: Kanua kari mata gatiagaga wa kuuga—a wet mouth cannot lack something to say. People will always talk. That’s their job. But it’s your job to protect your heart.
I once listened to a woman who had no children. Her peers called her names that pierced her soul. She withdrew from community groups. She locked herself in her house. The ridicule she endured crushed her spirit and silenced her voice. And she is not alone. I know women whose marriages have collapsed because of name calling. I know hardworking professionals who have resigned from their jobs because their character was attacked. I know brilliant thinkers whose dreams were dismantled by defamation.
My message is this: Do not let the names people call you define who you are. If you give those words power, they will steal your confidence and shred your purpose. They will uproot everything you have built in silence.
Even the Bible is full of examples of those who overcame verbal attacks. Hannah, the mother of Samuel, endured the taunting of Peninah, who mocked her barrenness. But Hannah did not stop praying. She did not surrender her hope. She kept believing, and in time, her prayers bore fruit. Sarah faced insult and ridicule from Hagar after Hagar conceived, but Sarah did not abandon her place beside Abraham. And above all, our Lord Jesus was insulted, ridiculed, and falsely accused throughout His ministry. But He did not abandon His mission. He endured to the cross, and because of that, we are saved.
If Jesus did not give up, why should we? If Hannah and Sarah pressed on despite humiliation, why should we bow to the hurtful words of others?
To every husband and wife—will you let the insults of in-laws determine the joy of your marriage? To every employee—will you allow a colleague’s insults to poison your attitude and productivity? To every neighbor living in environments filled with harsh tongues—will you permit those words to shape your lifestyle? Stand tall. Raise a pillar in your heart with the engraving: “Insults will not define me.” Let that be your declaration. People will talk. But you get to choose what takes root. Let the voice of God be louder than the voice of men in your life. Let your purpose be stronger than their gossip. And above all, let your story be one of resilience, faith, and noble character.
Verbal abuse, when allowed to settle in the heart, becomes a dangerous seed. It grows into insecurity, bitterness, and self-doubt. And if not confronted with truth and courage, it begins to shape a person’s identity.
There are many who have allowed themselves to be defined by what others have called them. They walk through life in the shadow of those cruel words, not realizing they’ve handed over the pen that writes their story to someone else. The question I pose is: Have you let name calling dictate how you think, live, or act?
I speak from experience. When I finished primary school, my academic journey did not immediately continue into high school education. Challenges at home delayed my progress, but there was a fire in my heart that never went out.
Even though the path was blocked, the yearning for education remained. I couldn’t quite explain why, but something deep within me longed to read, to learn, to pursue something greater. Year after year, as I stayed home watching others progress, my desire only intensified.
Finally, after eight long years, I made the decision to act. I obeyed the voice within me and enrolled myself in high school. I was the oldest student in that school, almost the age of some teachers. I joined them carrying more than books in my hands—I carried dreams in my heart and wounds from my past.
Every evening, as I walked home in my school uniform, I encountered ridicule. Men and women, some even familiar faces, hurled demeaning words my way. There were two types of mockery that I particularly remember. One group used to call me “guka uria uracokire cukuru”—the grandfather who went back to school. Another group taunted me, questioning why someone like me would return to the books. They said I was wasting time. They called me a fool, pointing to countless young men and women in our village who had certificates and diplomas but no jobs. They asked, "What difference will you make?"
Sometimes, their arguments seemed to carry weight. It’s true many were unemployed despite their education. It’s true my family’s background was humble. But they underestimated the strength of vision. They never imagined I would go beyond secondary school, let alone qualify for a university government sponsorship.
For the four years I was in secondary school, I endured verbal assaults that could have broken a weaker mind. I was laughed at, ridiculed, and shamed. Some people seemed to wait eagerly for the day I would drop out, return to the village, and prove them right. But God had a different story for me. I passed my exams. I succeeded.
Had I listened to them, I would have given up. Their words were heavy. They targeted my weaknesses, my past, and my family’s limitations. They spoke facts—but not truth. And that distinction is important. The facts may be accurate, but they don’t have to define the future. I chose not to let their voices set my direction. I stayed committed to my vision, to that fire inside that kept me going. I ignored them. And today, the same people who once called me names now call me munene—the great one. They ask favors. They seek advice. They speak highly of me. How quickly the narrative changes when you refuse to let insults determine your destiny.
One of the greatest tragedies is allowing the cruel words of others to write the story of your life. Just because people speak doesn’t mean they speak truth. In my community, there’s a saying: Kanua kari mata gatiagaga wa kuuga—a wet mouth cannot lack something to say. People will always talk. That’s their job. But it’s your job to protect your heart.
I once listened to a woman who had no children. Her peers called her names that pierced her soul. She withdrew from community groups. She locked herself in her house. The ridicule she endured crushed her spirit and silenced her voice. And she is not alone. I know women whose marriages have collapsed because of name calling. I know hardworking professionals who have resigned from their jobs because their character was attacked. I know brilliant thinkers whose dreams were dismantled by defamation.
My message is this: Do not let the names people call you define who you are. If you give those words power, they will steal your confidence and shred your purpose. They will uproot everything you have built in silence.
Even the Bible is full of examples of those who overcame verbal attacks. Hannah, the mother of Samuel, endured the taunting of Peninah, who mocked her barrenness. But Hannah did not stop praying. She did not surrender her hope. She kept believing, and in time, her prayers bore fruit. Sarah faced insult and ridicule from Hagar after Hagar conceived, but Sarah did not abandon her place beside Abraham. And above all, our Lord Jesus was insulted, ridiculed, and falsely accused throughout His ministry. But He did not abandon His mission. He endured to the cross, and because of that, we are saved.
If Jesus did not give up, why should we? If Hannah and Sarah pressed on despite humiliation, why should we bow to the hurtful words of others?
To every husband and wife—will you let the insults of in-laws determine the joy of your marriage? To every employee—will you allow a colleague’s insults to poison your attitude and productivity? To every neighbor living in environments filled with harsh tongues—will you permit those words to shape your lifestyle? Stand tall. Raise a pillar in your heart with the engraving: “Insults will not define me.” Let that be your declaration. People will talk. But you get to choose what takes root. Let the voice of God be louder than the voice of men in your life. Let your purpose be stronger than their gossip. And above all, let your story be one of resilience, faith, and noble character.
