What Remains After the Words

Some powerful memories surfaced as I began to awaken. Lying still, I found myself returning to a recent conversation with my son, not because of the words exchanged, but because of what led to the moment itself. He asked whether I remembered the questions I used to ask him and my younger cousin when they were children, only a year apart in age. At the time they were in first and second grade, though the practice began even earlier, back when my son was just starting kindergarten.

He could not recall the exact wording, but he shared something more meaningful. In moments of adversity, he told me, he carries an internal certainty that he will be alright, that whatever he is facing will not define or defeat him. Then he paused and asked, almost curiously, what those questions had been that I asked him daily as a small child. I smiled, because I remembered clearly.

They were simple, but they were intentional. They were asked in the morning, spoken during the day whenever the moment allowed, and repeated again before sleep. The first question was always the same. “What can you do?” Before he could hesitate, I taught him the answer. "Anything." Once that idea had a place to land, I followed with the second. “If you do what?” The response was, "If I put my mind to it" The final question shifted in wording but not in meaning. “Why?” “Because what?” His answer never changed. “Because I’m a king!”

At the time, I was deeply immersed in understanding the subconscious mind, the formation of self image, the influence of repetition, and the quiet power of suggestion. More importantly, I was applying what I was learning through consistent action. I was not trying to motivate him in the moment. I was shaping the internal dialogue he would carry long after my voice faded from the room.

Years later, hearing him describe his mindset without recalling the exact words confirmed something I had always believed. The language itself mattered, but the pattern mattered more. Those questions became less about memory and more about identity. I even shared this approach with his second grade teacher and classmates when I was invited to speak. During this time, I was a staff writer for a publication, and freelance writer for a couple other magazines. I shared this approach of framing powerful questions daily with the class, not as a lesson, but as an example of how intentional thinking can be nurtured early, quietly, and with care.

Now, as my son approaches his twenty sixth birthday, I reflect on that short window of time, from about five to seven years old, and I recognize how formative those moments were. He may not remember the phrasing, but I remember the plan. I remember the commitment to build his inner foundation before the world attempted to define it for him. This realization brings gratitude, not pride. It reinforces my belief that what we consistently model, repeat, and live often becomes more powerful than what we explain. Words may fade, but the beliefs they shape often remain, guiding decisions, resilience, and self trust in ways we may never logically interpret.

Perhaps the most meaningful lessons are not the ones remembered verbatim, but the ones that quietly become part of who we are. What questions are being repeated in your own inner dialogue; which beliefs were planted through consistency rather than instruction; how might intentional words spoken today echo years from now in ways unseen?