Abracadabra: A Curious Thought About the Words We Live By

What an ancient word made me wonder about the stories we tell ourselves.

Abracadabra.

A word we’ve probably all known since childhood. Magicians, magic wands, rabbits disappearing from hats. We hear it, smile, and rarely give it another thought.

Until today, when, for some reason, I found myself wondering where it actually came from.

So, naturally, I started digging.

It turns out that Abracadabra has a rather fascinating history. One of its earliest recorded uses dates back to ancient Rome, when people believed the word could protect them from illness.

They would write it repeatedly in the shape of an inverted triangle, removing one letter with each line until eventually, nothing remained. The idea was that, as the word gradually disappeared, so would the illness.

I thought there was something strangely beautiful about that.

But then I came across something even more intriguing.

One popular interpretation, although historically debated, connects Abracadabra with an ancient expression meaning:

“I create as I speak.”

And that’s where my mind wandered off in a completely different direction.

Because what does that actually mean?

Can we really create something through the words we speak?

Well, obviously, I can’t announce that I’d like a beautiful house by the sea and expect the keys to appear on my kitchen table.

If only.

But then another thought occurred to me.

What about the words we speak to ourselves?

Not necessarily out loud. I’m thinking about those quiet, almost automatic conversations happening somewhere in the background of our minds.

The ones we barely notice anymore.

I’m not good enough.

I’ll probably get it wrong.

I’m just not that kind of person.

I shouldn’t be so selfish.

Nobody else can hear them. Sometimes we’re not even fully aware we’re saying them.

Yet they can influence the choices we make, the opportunities we avoid, the relationships we accept and the way we see ourselves.

And then I started wondering about something else.

What if we don’t only create through the words we speak? What if we’re also shaped, in part, by the words we hear?

Especially when we’re young.

Children don’t arrive in the world knowing who they are. They discover themselves partly through their experiences, relationships and the reactions of the people around them.

And words play a part in that discovery.

Sometimes, quite unexpectedly.

Think about a child who’s always told how strong they are.

Such a lovely thing to say, isn’t it?

But I wonder whether that child might sometimes grow up believing that being strong means never needing anyone.

Or the little girl everyone praises for being so good, so helpful, so easy.

Perhaps she learns that being loved means keeping everyone happy, not complaining, never causing trouble.

Of course, these words aren’t necessarily harmful. They may be spoken with genuine love and encouragement.

And not every child will interpret them in the same way.

But isn’t it interesting how even the kindest words can sometimes become expectations?

How a description can gradually turn into an identity?

And how, years later, we might find ourselves living according to rules we don’t remember consciously agreeing to.

“I’m the responsible one.”

“I’m the strong one.”

“I’m the one who keeps everyone together.”

But who decided that?

And when did it become something we were no longer allowed to question?

I find this particularly fascinating because of the work I do.

In my practice, I often meet people who have spent years describing themselves in ways they’ve never really stopped to examine.

They’ll say, “I’ve always been an anxious person,” or “I’m just a people-pleaser,” or “I’ve never had much confidence.”

And I find myself wondering about the word always.

Have they always been that way?

Or has a familiar pattern, repeated over many years, gradually become part of how they understand themselves?

Perhaps something that once help them feel accepted or protected simply continued long after it was needed.

The human mind is fascinating like that.

We can become so accustomed to a particular story that we stop recognising it as a story.

It simply becomes the truth.

Or what we believe to be the truth.

And here’s another thought that stayed with me.

We often talk about changing the way we speak to ourselves. Positive affirmations, encouraging words, replacing negative thoughts with positive ones.

There can be value in that.

But what happens when the new words don’t match what we genuinely believe?

If someone has spent thirty years feeling unworthy, telling themselves “I am worthy” every morning might feel rather unconvincing.

Perhaps the difficulty isn’t finding better words.

Perhaps it’s understanding why the old ones became so believable in the first place.

Where did that belief come from?

Whose voice did it originally belong to?

And does it still deserve the authority we’ve given it?

I think there’s something quietly powerful about those questions.

Not because asking them instantly changes everything, but because curiosity can create a little space between who we are and what we’ve come to believe about ourselves.

And once there’s space, perhaps there’s room for a different understanding.

Which brings me back to Abracadabra.

Funny, isn’t it?

I started out researching a word associated with magic tricks and somehow ended up thinking about childhood, identity and the subconscious mind.

An occupational hazard, perhaps.

But I keep returning to that ancient practice of writing the word, removing one letter at a time, until eventually it disappeared.

There’s something about that image I can’t quite let go of.

Because perhaps some of the beliefs we’ve carried for years can begin to lose their hold on us in a similar way.

Not through magic.

Not by pretending the past never happened.

And certainly not by simply wishing difficult feelings away.

But through understanding.

One question.

One realisation.

One old story seen from a different perspective.

Until perhaps, one day, we notice that something we once believed so firmly about ourselves doesn’t feel quite as true anymore.

And maybe that’s the part I find most fascinating.

The words that helped shape who we became don’t necessarily have to define who we become next.

No magic wand required.