For a long time, I believed that anger was dangerous, not because it inherently is, but because of the way I was taught to experience it. My earliest memory of anger is tied to my father. I can still see him clearly in my mind, yelling at me in the early hours of the morning, shouting over things I had no control over. His voice was thunder, and I was just a child, confused and trembling under the weight of blame that didn’t belong to me.

In my home, anger was allowed, but only for others. When they expressed it, it was justified, but when I raised my voice, when I dared to say something that hinted at my own frustration or boundaries, I was mocked, silenced, and told I was being dramatic, hysterical, or too much. That stuck with me, deeply. I learned not to express anger. I learned that being angry meant being punished, ridiculed, or abandoned.

So, I became the girl who bottled everything up. I swallowed rage like poison, until the smallest things would trigger an outburst. Not because of the event itself, but because of all the unspoken, unresolved emotions that had nowhere else to go. I would explode at minor things while feeling shame and confusion over my reactions. I was never taught how to hold space for anger, only how to suppress it.

Anger, for me, has never been just about being “mad.” It’s been about feeling unseen, unheard, and invalidated. It’s been about being denied the right to exist with my full spectrum of emotions. And the more I held it in, the more it affected me. My body would react: heart pounding, vision going blurry, tension taking over my jaw and hands. I’d clench my teeth, make sharp movements, and feel like I was losing control, not over others, but over myself.

Over time, I began to recognize that my anger wasn’t the problem. What hurt the most was the injustice. When people around me dismissed my pain, ignored my boundaries, or acted like I didn’t matter, that is what fueled the fire inside. And under all that rage was grief. A heavy, aching sadness for the girl who never got to feel safe in her own emotional expression.

These days, I’m working on expressing my anger in ways that don’t harm me or the people I love. I don’t always get it right. I still snap. I still retreat into silence when I wish I had said something, but I am learning. I’m learning to speak up calmly, to express when something doesn’t feel good, and to pause before reacting. And when I can’t get it perfectly right, I give myself grace.

Recently, I’ve also begun having more honest conversations with my partner. Sometimes it brings up old wounds, moments when I feel my boundaries being crossed, or when sadness and anger mix in confusing ways, but I’m learning to talk through it. To trust that I can be heard, and that I can be soft and strong at the same time.

Nature helps. When everything feels too much, I go outside. I let myself be alone, where I can cry, scream, breathe, or just sit. There’s something about being in the trees, under the sky, that reminds me I am allowed to feel everything. I am allowed to be angry, to be passionate, to be fierce, and still be worthy of love.

I’ve realized that much of my anger has also been about not being believed in. About feeling underestimated, dismissed, or misunderstood. And honestly? That’s invalid, because I do deserve to be seen. I do deserve to take up space. And I’m no longer willing to bottle myself up just to keep others comfortable.

I’m learning that my anger isn’t my enemy. It’s a signal. It tells me when something isn’t right. It protects me. It speaks on behalf of my truth when I’ve been silent for too long. And sometimes, it shows me where I still hurt, so that I can heal, not suppress.

This is what reclaiming anger looks like for me. One moment, one breath, one honest conversation at a time.