There was a strict no-swearing rule in our house growing up. Honestly, I assumed that was pretty universal — not just a “my family” thing, but a general understanding of how respectable households operated. Certain words simply weren’t said. Period.

I will never forget the first time I let one slip in front of my mom. It wasn’t even one of the big offenders. I’m pretty sure it was just “dammit.” Still, the moment it left my mouth, I knew I was in trouble. I heard her reach for the wooden spoon before I even fully processed what I’d said. I don’t think I have ever run faster in my life. I made it to my room, slammed the door and started apologizing before she even got there. That was the last time I swore in front of her for a very long time.

Like most kids trying to work around rules, I got creative. I started using substitutes. “Freak” became my stand-in word for another F-word we all know. It felt harmless enough until one of my uncles called me out. He basically said, “If the meaning is the same, you’re still saying the word — you just changed the letters.” That argument shut me down quickly. Soon enough, “freak” was added to the banned list too.

I also remember ongoing debates with my mom about gray-area words. Was “hell” really swearing, or was it just descriptive? Could context make a difference? I argued my case more than once, but at the end of the day, I listened. I was raised to understand respect, and part of that meant watching my language — especially around family.

And then adulthood happened.

By my mid-20s, I was living in Washington, D.C., working in commercial development for a company expanding across the United States and internationally. It was an incredible experience. Truly one of my favorite workplaces to this day because of how much they supported growth and learning. I was part of a team working on a major mixed-use development project — commercial on our side, residential through partner developers.

Projects like that take time. A lot of time. Meetings, negotiations, city council presentations, revisions, community conversations — rinse and repeat. It was a lesson in patience, persistence, and what I like to call actively waiting. Not passive waiting. Strategic waiting. Sometimes even aggressively patient waiting.

Eventually, after what felt like endless rounds of approvals and adjustments, we went back before city council one more time. We had addressed every concern, checked every box, followed up on every detail. And finally, we received approval to build what is now known as City Vista on K Street — part of a larger transformation of that D.C. neighborhood.

Our attorney on the project was someone I deeply admired. She was brilliant, composed and fiercely competent. A total rockstar in my mind. I watched how she handled negotiations, conflict, and pressure, soaking up as much as I could.

After the council approval, our small team went out for a late celebratory dinner. Up until then, every interaction with her had been strictly professional. Suits, conference rooms, formal presentations. And then — somewhere between the appetizers and the main course — she dropped the F-bomb. Not once. A few times. Casually. Confidently. Completely herself.

I remember sitting there, this 20-something woman raised on the belief that respectable women didn’t swear, that no one would associate with her if she did. Now I was watching someone I respected immensely do exactly that — without losing an ounce of professionalism or credibility.

That moment felt like a permission slip.

It wasn’t about the word itself. It was about authenticity. About realizing that professionalism isn’t defined by sanitized language alone. It’s defined by integrity, competence, kindness and how you treat people.

Yes, I told my mom eventually. And out of respect for her, I still keep myself in check around her. Some habits — and some respect — don’t change. But I no longer see language in such rigid black-and-white terms. Sometimes a well-placed word captures jubilation, frustration, exhaustion or relief better than anything else. I don’t use those words “at” someone — that still crosses a line for me. But I do allow myself the full range of expression when the moment calls for it.

I’ve told my boys I’ve earned the right to use every word in Webster’s dictionary. One day, they’ll earn that right too. And holy sh#! — those conversations will be lively. But if I’ve done my job right, they’ll also know when words build something… and when they tear it down.

Mother, author, entrepreneur and founder of Dandelion-Inc, Lisa Resnick wants to hear your story. Share memories with her by emailing lisa@dandelion-inc.com.