On Cursing

And All The Other Ways I Still Rebel

I love to curse. The f-word especially. It’s so f*cking versatile.

It’s an adjective (that f*cking guy), a noun (what the f*ck), an intensifier (abso-f*cking-lutely), an interjection (f*ck!), a verb (f*ck off), and so much more. It’s the Swiss Army knife of language, ready for any emotional occasion and I am here for it!

In the gym, I emphasize a client’s good work with a “hell yeah” or drop an f-bomb when I really mean it. When someone nails a set of burpees they didn’t think they could finish, “nice work” doesn’t cut it. “F*ck yeah, you did that!” lands different. It’s a celebration. I’m saying that this moment deserves big words, not polite ones.

Cursing wasn’t always available to me. In Laestadianism, swearing was forbidden. Taking the Lord’s name in vain was a sin, obviously, but so was any profanity. Your mouth was meant for sugar, spice and everything nice. And of course prayer and hymns and saying the right things at the right times. Curse words were for unbelievers.

So when I heard Dad curse in his wood shop after smashing his hand, it stopped me cold. The word slipped out, quiet and pained: shit.

I was a teen by then. We were living in Cokato at the edge of town and Dad’s woodworking shop literally shared a window with my bedroom. I remember the shock of it. My dad, who had read me bedtime stories and had all the patience in the world, had said a bad word. And guess what? Nothing happened! He didn’t get struck by a lightning bolt. Not even a consequence. Just a dude with a bloody hand in his workshop, alone with a word that fit the moment better than anything else could have.

That stuck with me.

I read Suleika Jaouad and Carmen Radley’s essay about cursing this week in The Isolation Journals. In it, Radley writes about growing up in Southeast Texas where they said “cussin’” instead of “cursing,” her mother’s impulse to watch her language, and the playground rhyme: “Don’t cuss. Call Gus. Gus’ll cuss for us.”

She also writes about how a family friend once told her that only ignorant people curse because they have small vocabularies. They don’t know any better words.

I heard versions of that growing up too. Cursing was a sign of immorality. It showed a lack of self-control. Believers didn’t need those words.

As an adult with a pretty decent vocabulary and a graduate degree, I declare that sometimes fuck is the best word. Sometimes it’s the only word that captures the magnitude of what you’re feeling. Sometimes polite language is a cage and cursing is the key.

My cursing is in direct response to my conservative upbringing. So is shaving my head. So is not conforming to certain beauty standards. So is making the choice to not have children. So is getting as educated as I can before I die. So is dyeing my hair. So is piercing my ears and wearing the biggest earrings money can buy. So is wearing makeup. It’s all a middle finger to that faith.

I guess I’ll always rebel.

But I’m not rebelling for rebellion’s sake. I am reclaiming, choosing. I’m saying: I get to decide what words come out of my mouth, what I do with my body, and how I present myself to the world.

When I was Laestadian, every aspect of my person was policed. No makeup. No gaudy jewelry. Natural hair. Modest clothing. Clean language. My body was for fecundity. Everything was designed to make my gender small, contained, and acceptable.

Now I curse like a sailor (a trucker?). I shave my head when I feel like it and insert a pink stripe when I please. I wear lipstick and giant hoops. I say fuck in the middle of sentences if they need emphasis. I take up space. I make noise.

It feels like freedom.

I love a hard consonant. The way fuck hits the back of your tongue and explodes out. The way shit lands with finality. The way damn pushes against your teeth and seals your with commitment.

These words have power precisely because we are told not to use them. They are transgressive. They break the rules and announce: I am not being careful right now. I am not watching my language. I am saying exactly what I mean.

In a religion that forced me to be careful, to watch myself and to monitor every word and action for signs of sin, cursing is a small act of defiance that never gets old.

I love what Radley says about how cursing “can quickly make an acquaintance into a friend.” There’s an intimacy to it. A mutual understanding that we’re not performing propriety here. We’re being real.

When I’m training a client and they’re struggling through the last rep and I say, “Come on, you’ve got this shit,” something shifts. We’re not in formal trainer-client mode anymore. We are two people in the trenches together, using whatever words get the job done.

The same thing happens when I’m talking to someone who’s left a fundie religion. The first time one of us casually drops a curse word, there’s this moment of recognition. Oh. You’re out too! You’re not performing good anymore either. Hehe

It’s a signal. A handshake. A reverse “God’s Peace.” The old rules don’t apply here.

Mom would probably be mortified by how much I curse, though she used to giggle and tell me how naughty I was when I slipped in a good one. She would say things like “gosh” or “shoot.” Substitutes that let her express frustration without technically sinning.

But those substitute words always felt hollow to me. A little too Disney, like we were pretending. We knew what we really meant but were too afraid to say it out loud.

So now I say what I mean. When something is fucked up, I call it fucked up. When I’m pissed off, I say I’m pissed off. When someone does something amazing, I tell them that was fucking incredible.

The words match the emotion. There’s no gap between what I’m feeling and what I’m saying. I feel aligned.

I think that’s the real freedom. Not that I curse because I’m allowed to now. But that I curse because it’s genuinely part of my vocabulary, my voice, my way of moving through the world.

My rebellion has become just, well, living. The transgression is normal. The forbidden words are mine.

So yes, I fucking love to curse. And I’m not watching my language anymore.

I use whatever words fit. The explosive ones. The satisfying ones. The ones that make other people from my background recognize me as someone who got out.

Fuck yeah, I did.