In linguistics, words evolve along predictable paths. There's amelioration, where words improve over time—"bad" now means both terrible and smoking hot, depending on your inflection. Then there's pejoration, the far more common descent into darkness, where innocent bundles of sticks and clinical terms become slurs I won't type here.

 But there's a third evolution that's less academic and more vibes-based: semantic bleaching. Words lose their punch entirely. "Awesome" once meant genuinely awe-inspiring; now it's what you say when someone brings donuts to the office.

Take "unhoused," a term that's been bothering me lately. Not because housing isn't a crisis—five states have over 10,000 people sleeping outside, rents have skyrocketed since 2013, and somehow we're building apartments no one can afford. The problem is that "unhoused" makes it sound like people just misplaced their houses, like they left them in their other purse.

Let's be real. This country doesn't have an "unhoused population" problem. It has a homelessness crisis caused by addiction, mental illness, domestic violence, medical bankruptcy, unemployment, and a housing market that requires selling organs to make rent. These people weren't "unhoused"—they were systematically excluded from housing. The passive voice lets the system off the hook.

Which brings me to another phrase that's been bleached of all meaning: body shaming.

Originally, this term had teeth. It called out the systematic discrimination against larger bodies—the limited clothing options, the medical bias, the employment discrimination. It named something real and harmful.

But then something Wicked happened. Or rather, the Wicked discourse happened, where suddenly commenting on Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo's appearances became "body shaming." The internet exploded with concern trolling disguised as health worry: Are they on Ozempic? Do they have eating disorders? Are they crying because they're hungry?

Here's the thing: there's no systemic shame in being thin. Thin bodies—preferably white, European ones—have been the beauty standard since forever. BBLs and curves might trend, but slenderness always returns as the default. You can't "shame" someone for meeting the beauty standard any more than you can shame someone for being rich. The system that creates these standards? That's shameful. The women trying to promote their movie while existing in bodies? Not so much.

I've been there. A few years ago, I lost thirty pounds through exercise and felt fantastic—cheekbones emerged, obliques appeared, pants needed belts. Then I moved cross-country and stress withered away another ten pounds. The difference was stark: suddenly I looked like a Victorian consumptive, all clavicles and countable ribs. But nobody shamed me. If anything, people asked for my "secret."

We can't diagnose celebrities through screens. Maybe Grande and Erivo have disordered eating. Maybe they're stressed from endless press tours. Maybe their bodies just respond to pressure this way. But calling speculation about thin bodies "body shaming" dilutes a term that once described actual discrimination. Fatphobia is real—it affects healthcare, employment, basic dignity. That's not the same as your aunt making snippy comments about second helpings.

This is what semantic bleaching does: it takes words with specific, important meanings and stretches them until they snap. "Awesome" for everything positive. "Unhoused" for a systemic failure. "Body shaming" for any observation about any body, regardless of context or power dynamics.

Language evolves—that's inevitable. But when we let important words dissolve into semantic mush, we lose the ability to name real problems. And if we can't name them, we certainly can't fix them. Sometimes a word isn't just a word; it's a tool. And right now, we're letting our tools go dull.