My high school history teacher, Mr. E, was one of those special teachers we all (one hopes) encounter once or twice in a lifetime, one whose wisdom and passion and enthusiasm changes lives. Not only did he teach me about history and current affairs and world events in a way that has shaped who I am today, he taught me a simple one word trick: a trick I have used every day of my life since, a trick that has helped my marriage and my parenting and my relation to the world. He taught me to identify, and avoid, quick judgments and simple solutions to complex problems by watching for the word "just."

When learning of other cultures and of world events, he would always ask his students not to say: "Why don't we/they just...?" -- "Why don't we just invade that country?" or "Why don't we just raise taxes?" or "Why don't they just get jobs?" We/they don't "just" because it's not that simple. If it were, it would already be done.

When my son was almost three, I signed him up for a class at Gymboree to get him out and around other kids. At circle time, all the other kids would gather around for a story or a game and my son would be off by himself, still climbing or jumping somewhere. I would try to get him to come sit down, but he'd tantrum. One day, after another day of watching the other kids sing and clap together while my son crawled through tunnels alone, I burst into tears when talking to my husband and said, "Why can't he just sit down for a few minutes and try? Why can't he just do what the other kids do?" And I realized, as soon as I said it, what I'd said: "just." If it were as simple for him as it is for the other children, he would do it. He can't "just" do what other kids do. I didn't know at the time that autism was what kept him from "just" being like other kids, but I did realize that I was asking him to do something difficult, more difficult than I knew.

When my husband first came clean about his addiction, he told me most of what had gone on, but over the months and years that followed, every now and then something new would trickle out. And each new disclosure felt like probing at a wound that was just beginning to heal. One day, after he told me about an encounter with a mutual friend that he had forgotten about, I yelled, "Why can't you just tell me everything and be done? Why can't you just stop lying and hiding?" And he replied, sadly, "Because I can't 'just'... I'm an addict and addicts lie; it's what we do. I don't like it. I don't want to. I try not to. I'm working. But it's deeply ingrained and it's not easy to stop." And that anger in me released. He wasn't failing to do something easy; he was working as hard as he could to do something more difficult than anything he had ever done before.

"Just" is a warning that we're not looking deep enough. "Just" is a sign that what seems simple, isn't. "Just" is a signal that we don't understand the complexities. "Just" is telling us we're passing judgment too quickly. When you hear yourself say it now, pause, and take a closer look. The ability to hear and learn from that little "just" is a gift: a gift a wise man gave to me, a gift I give to you.