Therapy Bits

Growing up in an environment where anger wasn’t allowed to exist—at least not in me—felt like living with one missing color in the emotional spectrum. Everything looked almost right from the outside, but inside, something essential was dimmed or distorted.

I learned early that anger was “too much”—too loud, too messy, too risky. So I became skillful at tucking it away. I redirected it into silence, into perfectionism, into being “easy.” When something hurt, I told myself it didn’t. When something crossed a boundary, I convinced myself there wasn’t a boundary to begin with. It was safer to be agreeable, to be understanding, to be calm. That’s what earned approval. That’s what kept the peace.

But growing up without permission to feel angry doesn’t erase anger—it just forces it underground. It turns into tight shoulders, a quickened heartbeat, internal criticism, or a vague sense that something is wrong but impossible to name. It can turn into resentment toward others, or disappointment toward myself for not being able to magically stay unaffected by things that should bother me.

It took years to realize that anger isn’t the enemy—it’s information. It’s the part of me that says, “This matters,” or “That crossed a line,” or “Something needs to change.” Learning to let myself feel it has been like slowly growing back a limb I didn’t know I was missing. At first it was clumsy and uncomfortable—anger felt dangerous, like it could unravel everything. But over time, it became a sign of self-respect rather than rebellion.

Now, when anger shows up, I try to greet it instead of banish it. I try to ask what it’s trying to protect. I try to listen instead of shame myself for feeling something human and honest.

The truth is, reclaiming anger has been part of reclaiming me. And even though it’s still a work in progress, it feels like finally letting my full emotional palette show—messy, vivid, and real.