Learning to Welcome My Anger

 For most of my life, I knew sadness. I knew fear. I knew worry, guilt, and the heavy silence of overwhelm. But anger? Anger was something that felt far away from me, something dangerous or loud that belonged to other people. I didn’t realize that my anger had simply gone underground. That it had turned into tension in my shoulders, fear of confrontation, constant overthinking, and moments of crying without knowing exactly why.

I grew up learning that being "nice" meant being calm, pleasing, and non-confrontational. I was a sensitive child, often picking up on others' feelings before my own. If someone was upset, I thought it must be my fault. If I was upset, I hid it to keep the peace. Slowly, my nervous system became trained to associate any flicker of anger with danger, rejection, or shame.

It took me a long time to recognize my suppressed anger. I needed to experience a panic attack and a complete shutdown of my body to finally see it. I remember it vividly. I was sitting on my couch, talking on the phone with my brother. We were talking about our family, and suddenly something triggered me—and I lost my senses. I shut down and lay on the couch. It took four to five hours to regain my power and energy to continue my day. I felt so drained, so sad and hurt. My whole body hurt. And I didn’t realize—I was just angry.

What Helped Me Begin Healing:

• Inner Child Work: I started talking to the little girl inside me who had learned it wasn’t safe to feel mad. I told her, "You’re allowed to be angry. Your anger means something mattered to you."

• Naming the Pattern: I learned that people with anxious-preoccupied attachment styles (like me) often fear that expressing anger will push people away. That made me realize: I wasn’t broken. I was protecting myself in the only way I knew.

• Symbolic and Creative Expression: I discovered that my anger doesn’t always want to yell. Sometimes it wants to paint. To dance. To journal.

What I’m Still Learning:

• That anger can be sacred. It is the heat of truth, the boundary being crossed, the self saying "no more."

• That expressing anger doesn’t have to be harmful. It can be clear, soft, embodied, and still powerful.

• That when I don’t listen to my anger, it doesn’t disappear—it just finds a quieter, sadder, or more anxious place to live.

• That reclaiming anger is part of reclaiming my full self.

Gentle Practices I Use Now:

•  Emotional Check-Ins: Each morning or night, I ask myself: "Was there anything today that made me feel unseen, overextended, or resentful?"

• Somatic Awareness: If I clench my jaw or tighten my stomach, I pause. I ask, "Is this anger? What is it trying to tell me?"

• Artistic Release: Scribbling with oil pastels. Tearing paper. Moving my body to fierce music. These are small but profound acts of liberation.

• Boundary Practice: I rehearse simple phrases like, "I need space right now," or "That didn’t sit right with me." Practicing in private helps me say them in real life.

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This journey is not about becoming explosive. It’s about becoming whole. I don’t want to reject my anger anymore. I want to welcome it as a messenger. As a guide. As a part of me that finally feels safe to be heard.

If you recognize yourself in this story, know this: your anger is not a problem. It is a signal that something inside you still believes you deserve to be treated with care, respect, and honesty. That voice deserves space.

And if you're not ready to speak it out loud yet, start with a whisper. Or a brushstroke. Or a tear. That is more than enough.

With gentleness, Elli