If you’ve stopped giving second chances, you’ve probably accepted these 9 uncomfortable truths

Let’s play a little vocabulary game—with a twist.

I’m not talking about dusty trivia you’ll never use. I’m talking about words that sharpen perception, give you cleaner thinking, and nudge you toward better choices.

The right word is like a precision tool: it helps you see—and say—what’s actually going on.

As Ludwig Wittgenstein famously put it, “The limits of my language mean the limits of my world.” And if words expand your world, you and I can use them to expand our calm, our courage, and our ability to connect.

Below are ten rare (but wonderfully useful) words. I’ll give you the meaning, a quick example, and how I use each one in day-to-day life.

See how many you already know—and notice how having the word changes what you notice.

1. Ataraxia

Meaning: A state of serene calm; untroubledness.

In a sentence: “After the difficult meeting, I walked home in ataraxia, not because the problem was solved, but because I wasn’t rattled anymore.”

Why it matters: I spent years in finance thinking calm came after a situation turned out well. Ataraxia flips that. It’s the skill of staying even-keeled while outcomes are still in flux. When I name it—“I’m aiming for ataraxia right now”—I stop chasing control and start choosing composure.

2. Aleatory

Meaning: Dependent on chance; shaped by randomness.

In a sentence: “Our marketing success was aleatory—lucky timing more than genius strategy.”

Why it matters: This word keeps me honest. When results go my way, “aleatory” reminds me to separate skill from luck. It keeps hubris down and curiosity up: What did I control? What was a dice roll? That clarity makes me a better planner next time.

3. Procrustean

Meaning: Forcing everything to fit a rigid, one-size-fits-all standard (even when it doesn’t).

In a sentence: “The procrustean policy made creative work feel like filling out a tax form.”

Why it matters: Procrustean thinking shows up in self-development more than we admit—copying someone else’s morning routine, expecting one book to fix all problems. When I feel cramped by a system, I ask, “Is this helpful structure or a procrustean bed?” Then I adjust instead of contorting.

4. Apophasis

Meaning: A rhetorical move where you bring something up by saying you won’t mention it.

In a sentence: “Not to brag, but I did finish the project a week early”—classic apophasis.

Why it matters: Spotting apophasis helps me read speech more accurately—mine and others’. When I catch myself using it, I check my intent: Am I deflecting? Fishing for praise? It nudges me toward cleaner, more direct communication.

5. Antifragile

Meaning: A system or person that benefits from disorder—stress makes it stronger.

In a sentence: “That feedback hurt, but my process is antifragile; I’ll come back with a sharper draft.”

Why it matters: I lean on this word when a plan hits turbulence. Instead of merely bouncing back (resilience), I ask how the stressor can improve the system. Can I tighten a checklist? Set a boundary? Change a metric? The word itself is a mini-coaching cue: Strength because of strain.

6. Eudaimonia

Meaning: Human flourishing; living in alignment with one’s best self (not just pleasure).

In a sentence: “Trail running isn’t just fun—it feeds my eudaimonia.”

Why it matters: This one keeps me from chasing shallow wins. Eudaimonia asks, “Does this choice help me grow into the person I respect?” On weeks when my calendar gets crowded, that question pulls me back toward nourishing work, quality rest, and real relationships.

7. Akrasia

Meaning: Knowing the right thing to do but not doing it; weakness of will.

In a sentence: “I had akrasia about sending the difficult email and scrolled instead.”

Why it matters: Naming akrasia removes shame and invites strategy. If I say, “This isn’t laziness; it’s akrasia,” my brain flips into problem-solving: shorten the first step, add a timer, ask for an accountability text. (If you want a crisp philosophical overview of the concept, the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy has a solid entry.)

8. Parapraxis

Meaning: A so-called “Freudian slip”; an error that reveals an underlying thought.

In a sentence: “Calling my colleague by my sister’s name was a parapraxis—I was replaying an old dynamic.”

Why it matters: When parapraxis happens, I try curiosity instead of embarrassment. What was I feeling? What pattern did I import into the room? The word turns a gaffe into a data point. That’s gold for self-observers like us.

9. Anagnorisis

Meaning: A moment of profound recognition—when you suddenly see the truth of a situation or yourself.

In a sentence: “Reading my old journal, I had an anagnorisis: I’ve been postponing the same dream for five years.”

Why it matters: In stories, anagnorisis changes the plot. In life, it changes the plan. I treat these moments with ceremony—capture them in writing, tell a trusted friend, make one irreversible step (send the application, book the class). A named insight is harder to ignore.

10. Sonder

Meaning: The sudden realization that every passerby has a vivid, complex inner life.

In a sentence: “On the subway, sonder hit me—each person carrying a story bigger than I’ll ever know.”

Why it matters: Sonder is an empathy switch. When I flip it on, I soften my judgments. The driver who cut me off might be late to the doctor; the curt email might mask a migraine. This doesn’t excuse bad behavior, but it widens my lens—and often my patience.

What to do with these words (besides impressing your quiz app)

Knowing a word is nice. Using it is power. Here’s how I weave them into daily life:

• Build a tiny practice around each. One week, I wrote “ataraxia” on a sticky note and kept it on my monitor. My only job: catch myself staying calm once a day and name it. The next week, “akrasia”—and I designed one friction-reducing tweak for a task I avoided.

• Turn them into questions.
  “Is this setback turning my system more antifragile or just wearing me out?”
  “Am I forcing a procrustean fit on this goal?”
  “Is this hesitation akrasia or a wise pause?”
  Questions unlock behavior change more gently than commands.

• Use them to clean up your stories. When a result is aleatory, I don’t make it a referendum on my worth; I study what’s repeatable. When I sense sonder, I rewrite a conflict with more nuance and less heat. When I have an anagnorisis, I mark the date—because future-me will try to forget.

• Share them deliberately. At a team meeting, I’ll say, “I’m aiming for ataraxia while we wait on the numbers.” In a friendship, “I’m fighting akrasia on my creative project—can you ask me on Friday if I shipped?” Words become habits when you use them out loud.

A brief note on words and power

Rudyard Kipling once said, “Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.”

That line makes me smile because the right linguistic dose can soothe, energize, or awaken. The trick is dosing ourselves with language that clarifies and empowers, not language that fogs and flatters.

If you already knew all ten, I’m genuinely impressed—and I hope you’re putting them to work.

If you knew a handful, wonderful: mastery loves companions. And if several were brand-new, even better: nothing sparks growth like naming what you didn’t know you didn’t know.

Either way, notice what happens over the next few days. Do you spot apophasis in a politician’s speech? Feel ataraxia during a tough conversation? Catch akrasia and take the first tiny step anyway? That’s the game. And that’s how a “rare word” becomes a common strength.

Happy expanding.