Use Everyday Language

Why your marketing should sound like a human being, not a brand

There is a subtle but important shift that happens in the way many teachers, coaches, and small business owners begin to communicate once they step into their professional role, and it is one that often goes unnoticed. Without quite realising it, the natural rhythm of their voice begins to change. The language becomes more polished, more structured, and often more aligned with what they believe a “professional” or “expert” should sound like. And yet, in this process, something essential is frequently lost.

The simplest way to describe this is that they begin to speak like a coach, rather than like a person.

When we speak like a coach, we tend to default to language that feels elevated but abstract, drawing on industry terminology, familiar phrases, and concepts that are widely circulated within our field. This language can sound impressive at first glance, but it often creates distance. It positions the speaker as the authority and the listener as the recipient, rather than inviting a sense of shared experience or genuine connection.

To speak client, rather than coach, is to make a different choice. It is to speak in the language that your audience already uses in their own lives, to meet them where they are rather than asking them to step into your vocabulary. It is less about simplifying your message, and more about humanising it.

A useful way to understand this is to consider the difference between being spoken to and being spoken with. There is a particular quality of voice that feels inclusive, conversational, and quietly intimate, as though you are being addressed by someone who knows you, or at the very least, is willing to sit alongside you rather than stand above you. This is what creates trust. Not authority alone, but relatability.

We might think here of a familiar cultural reference point, such as the character of Carrie Bradshaw (Sex and the City), who, despite offering reflections on relationships and life, never adopts the tone of a lecturer or expert delivering a formal teaching. Instead, she speaks as though she is in conversation with a friend, sharing observations, questions, and experiences in a way that allows the listener to feel included rather than instructed. There is a softness to this, and a kind of accessibility that makes the message land more deeply, precisely because it does not attempt to position itself as something distant or elevated.

Closely related to this is the importance of specificity, which is often underestimated in its impact. Generalised language has a tendency to flatten meaning, making it harder for the listener or reader to fully engage with what is being said. When we speak in broad terms, we may feel that we are being clear, but in reality, we are often leaving too much open to interpretation.

There is a significant difference between speaking in concepts and speaking in images. To say, for example, “move away from consumerism and towards community” may sound coherent, but it remains abstract. The listener must do the work of translating this into something tangible. When we instead say something like “stop buying things you do not need and begin growing vegetables in a local community garden,” the idea becomes grounded. It can be seen, imagined, and understood in a much more immediate way.

This principle applies across all aspects of communication. A banana is easier to picture than a piece of fruit. A geranium holds more presence than a flower. The image of someone putting on a kimono they bought in Japan carries a different texture entirely than simply saying they got dressed. These details are not decorative; they are connective. They allow the reader to enter the world you are describing, rather than observing it from a distance.

Alongside this, there is also a need to examine the language we have inherited from our respective industries, particularly the terms that have become so widely used that they begin to lose their meaning. Words such as empowerment, embodiment, somatic, nervous system, or even breathwork may once have held specificity, but through overuse, they can become vague containers into which many different interpretations are placed.

The issue is not with the words themselves, but with how they are used. When we rely on these terms without grounding them, we risk speaking in a kind of shorthand that assumes understanding, rather than ensuring it. A more thoughtful approach is to pause and consider what we actually mean in practical terms. If we refer to breathwork, are we speaking about a slow, steady breathing practice, a guided meditation, or a more structured technique done over a specific period of time? When we take the time to articulate this clearly, we reduce confusion and increase trust, because the person we are speaking to can understand not only the concept, but the lived experience of what we are offering.

There is also something to be said for the way we position ourselves within a wider field of knowledge and influence. In an environment that can sometimes feel competitive, there can be a tendency to present ideas as though they are entirely our own, or to omit the lineage and influences that have shaped our thinking. Yet there is a quiet strength in acknowledging where our work comes from, in naming the teachers, authors, and experiences that have informed us. This does not diminish our authority; rather, it situates us within a broader conversation and reflects a level of integrity that is often felt, even if it is not consciously analysed by the audience.

In more recent times, another layer has entered this conversation, particularly with the increasing use of artificial intelligence in content creation. There is no denying that these tools can be helpful in many respects, offering support with structure, brainstorming, and organisation. However, when it comes to voice, there is a risk that over-reliance on these tools can lead to a kind of homogenisation, where language becomes polished but indistinct, and where many different voices begin to sound remarkably similar.

What is lost in this process is not only individuality, but also the subtle imperfections that signal humanity. The slight irregularities in tone, the rhythm of a sentence, the occasional departure from grammatical precision—these are not flaws to be eliminated, but qualities that make writing feel alive. They are often the very things that allow a reader to feel that there is a real person behind the words, someone who is speaking directly to them rather than producing content for a generalised audience.

To write and speak in a way that is genuinely connective requires a willingness to remain close to one’s own voice, even when it feels less polished or less aligned with what might be considered ideal. It asks for a level of trust, both in oneself and in the audience, trusting that clarity, sincerity, and specificity will land more effectively than abstraction or performance.

In the end, the shift is a simple one, though not always an easy one to maintain. It is the shift from broadcasting to conversing, from presenting to relating, from speaking at to speaking with. When we allow our communication to take on this quality, something changes in the way it is received. It becomes less about delivering a message, and more about creating a connection.