Journal Entry: The Edge of Exploding

Today I felt rage rise in me like fire — the kind that starts in the gut and spreads until even my breath feels like smoke. It wanted out. It wanted to scream, to break, to be seen. But I did what I’ve been trained to do since childhood: I swallowed it whole and smiled like it tasted sweet.

That’s the curse of growing up around emotional landmines — you learn to tiptoe around everyone else’s explosions while burying your own. You become fluent in silence, polite in your pain, and terrified of becoming the very thing that hurt you. But that silence — it festers. It turns into tight shoulders, restless nights, jaw tension, and a constant hum of “don’t you dare lose control.”

For years, I thought control was safety. I thought biting my tongue made me strong. But lately, Spirit’s been showing me that what I’ve been calling “strength” is actually suppression in disguise. The cost of peacekeeping has been my own peace.

The truth is, I inherited a legacy of swallowed rage — passed down from those who never felt safe enough to speak their truth. Mothers who were silenced. Fathers who were hardened. Generations who taught me that anger was dangerous, that emotional honesty was rebellion. But I can feel it now — that buried fire wants to become something holy.

I’m learning to honor my anger as sacred energy — not a threat, but a teacher. When I sit with it, it tells me stories of boundaries crossed, of voices ignored, of inner children begging to be heard. It tells me that my rage isn’t meant to destroy, it’s meant to transform.

So instead of swallowing it, I breathe through it. I move my body. I cry. I write. I scream into the wind. I let it out in ways that don’t wound me. Because real strength isn’t pretending the fire isn’t there — it’s learning to dance with it without burning down the house.

Tonight, Spirit pressed this truth into my chest like an ember:
Anger is not sin. Rage is simply energy asking for transformation.

And I’m finally brave enough to listen.