I used to be afraid of my anger. I saw it as something messy and shameful—something to bury deep so no one could see. But the more I buried it, the more it grew, like roots spreading under the surface, cracking things I thought were stable.
Now I’m learning that anger isn’t the enemy. It’s a signal. A voice that says, “Something hurt. Something crossed a line.”
Like a wildfire, anger can be destructive if left unchecked. But fire also clears the forest floor, making space for new growth. I’m learning to sit with my anger. To ask it questions instead of running from it. What are you here to show me? What needs to change?
I’m slowly giving myself permission to feel it all—without fear, without judgment. Anger doesn’t mean I’m broken. It means I care. It means something mattered deeply.
Not every flame needs to become a blaze. Sometimes, just naming the fire is enough.