For an Orthodox Christian, the struggle with passions is not an episode but a permanent condition. A passion is simply a sin that has settled in and become a habit. Some of these habits we politely rename “addictions”: chemical ones, social ones, emotional ones. Others we shrug off as bad habits. In reality, they behave like cockroaches—where there is one, there are usually many more hiding in the dark.

For years, one such passion ruled me completely. I was proud of my sharp tongue. Not just sharp—lavishly, creatively profane. I could construct elaborate verbal monstrosities for almost any occasion and felt no particular shame about it. I spared my students and pupils only out of fear of being fired. Worse still, I wasn’t merely fluent in obscene language; I was something of a connoisseur, well-versed in its history and etymology. Giving up a habit is hard enough; giving up something in which you feel like an expert is harder still.

Of course, foul language eventually extracts its price. Once a friend sharply rebuked me for an especially misplaced and vulgar joke. The conflict was painful, but short-lived, and I carried on as before. Later I decided that swearing was unbecoming of an educated person and imposed a fine on myself: for every obscene word, I would transfer a hefty sum of money to charity—no take-backs allowed. I paid for that resolve with a handbag and a pair of shoes I never bought. In time, I forgot the rule. The habit stayed.

It might have stayed forever, had I not once heard one of my signature verbal constructions—spoken by my eight-year-old son. That moment was genuinely terrifying. Not embarrassing. Not awkward. Terrifying. It forced a question I had carefully avoided: why do I swear at all? Does it actually help me live? Is it part of who I am?

The honest answer was uncomfortable. I swear because I feel defenseless.

A hedgehog has its spines. A tiger has claws and strength. I had words. For most of my life, I was on the defensive—even when no one was attacking. It seemed easier to strike first than to lick wounds later. Sharp language became my armor. The problem is that it doesn’t really protect. It only leaves you feeling like a fish thrown onto the ice—perhaps venomous, but still helpless.

So I prayed. Not for eloquence, not for self-control, but for protection. I asked God to teach me how to defend myself. The answer did not come instantly, but it did come.

One day it dawned on me that I had never actually been without protection. I had simply forgotten it was there. I had lived my life as if I were alone, as if everything depended on my own reflexes and verbal weapons. And I had forgotten the simplest, most difficult truth of all: that God loves me and has been guarding me all along.

That love—not verbal aggression, not irony, not carefully sharpened insults—creates a sense of basic safety. Once I understood this, the urgency to defend myself dissolved. Whether someone attacks or not becomes almost secondary. When you know you are loved and protected, you are far less vulnerable than you imagined.

I will not claim that I will never swear again. That would be arrogance. But a beginning has been made. And for now, that is enough. After all, God does not abandon us to harm—and we do not need to keep proving our strength with words.