A dog in the fight
For much of my twenties and thirties, I was fueled by rage. It didn’t look like chaos on the outside. I functioned. I worked. I built. I trained. I showed up. But underneath it all was something older, something that began in childhood; pain that didn’t have language, emotions that had no safe place to land and experiences that shaped me long before I understood them. So I learned to hide. I learned how to keep moving while carrying what was too heavy to name. I learned how to be composed while something inside me was anything but. And over time, what was buried didn’t disappear, it intensified. It became pressure. It became fire. It became rage. There is a sacred truth in that anger, even though I didn’t see it clearly back then. It wasn’t just destruction. It was protection. It was my higher self stepping in, doing what I could not yet do for myself. It created boundaries when I had none. It gave me strength when I was depleted. It kept me functioning when the alternative would...