I believe that “impossible” is one of, if not the most, casually cruel words we use in modern language. Casually slipping the word into conversation as if it doesn’t come with consequences: a shrug, a warning or a way to end a thought before it becomes inconvenient. We use it to sound practical, grounded and realistic.
But more often than not, “impossible” is not a fact. It’s a boundary.
Growing up, I learned to treat “impossible” like a verdict. Certain goals were unrealistic. Certain paths were impractical. Certain versions of myself were, at best, aspirational and, at worst, naive.
The word appeared most often when something felt risky – emotionally, socially or professionally. It arrived not with evidence, but with fear dressed up as wisdom.
In college, “impossible” shows up everywhere. It’s in the way we talk about careers we want but feel underqualified for. It’s in the hesitation before switching majors, setting boundaries or choosing rest over productivity. We label things impossible when they threaten the version of ourselves we’ve worked hard to maintain: capable, composed and quietly impressive.
But “impossible” rarely means unachievable. More often, it means unfamiliar. It means we don’t have a clear roadmap.
It means trying would require us to be seen failing, changing or wanting something that doesn’t come with immediate validation. In that way, the word does its job efficiently. It keeps us safe. It keeps us small.
What’s dangerous isn’t that we encounter limits; real ones exist. What’s dangerous is how quickly we accept limits that were never tested. “Impossible” becomes a conversational shortcut, a way to avoid asking harder questions.
Not, Can I do this? But, what would it cost me to try? Not, is this realistic? But, who benefits if I don’t attempt it?
I didn’t throw the word out of my vocabulary because I suddenly became fearless or wildly ambitious. I threw it out because I realized how often it had been doing all my thinking for me. How it controlled my dreams, had me standing in uncertainty, discomfort, all for the possibility that I might want something before I was “ready” for it.
To be ready for something is to understand the difference between recognizing limits and surrendering curiosity. When we call something impossible too quickly, we forfeit the chance to grow into it. We mistake readiness for worthiness.
We wait for permission that rarely comes.
“Impossible” will always feel definitive, but growth will not. Growth is clumsy, slow and unbelievable at first. It does not announce itself with certainty. It begins with trying, not to win, but to learn who you are when the outcome isn’t guaranteed.
So maybe the goal isn’t to believe that anything is possible. Maybe it’s simply to stop letting a single word decide what we’re allowed to want.
Maybe growth begins the moment we pause before saying “impossible” and ask ourselves who we might become if we tried anyway. Not because success is guaranteed, but because choosing curiosity over fear is, in itself, an act of becoming.