As we drove to her high school one morning not long ago, I asked my daughter Sophie what words she’d use to describe herself.

“Cute, funny, smart, hard working,” she says.

“Anything else?”

“Lovable.” Literary Hub

Sophie did not use the word retarded, though some people might. I’ve never heard her say it. She’s never heard me say it, either. I don’t use it. Anymore.

To be totally honest, I miss the word.

I imagine it’s a little like how a smoker feels once she’s quit. Relieved to be rid of cigarettes, disgusted that she ever used them. Healthy, now. A better person for it. But sometimes, there’s that sense that nothing else will ever deliver quite the same satisfaction. Years later, I still find myself craving the r-word.

I went cold turkey in 2003, the year Sophie, my second daughter, was born. In the recovery room post C-section, I forced my drugged eyes open long enough to ask my husband Ray, “What are you doing?” and closed them again when he told me he was measuring the placement of Sophie’s ears, a marker of Down syndrome.

Read Amy Silverman’s full essay here:https://lithub.com/learning-to-unsay-the-r-word/