Treating Rage as Sacred


Even though it’s my turn and I’m overdue, I cast around for every excuse imaginable to avoid this commitment to blog today. Because this space is about being able to be raw and real. And the real me today has been cussing and saying things really loudly– a lot.

I am angry. I am enraged. When I look around I see pain, I see injustice and it is NOT OK. I am sick and tired of seeing black and brown bodies discarded. Seeing women treated as sub-human, not worthy of belief or dignity.

Daily I channel that anger into my work. I channel it into advocacy. I channel it in whatever ways I feel can make even a dent of difference.

And that’s important.

But honestly, it isn’t and never will be enough.

No matter how much I use my anger to energize myself and motivate action, I can never spend it all. I can never use it all up.

Because things will keep happening. News of another tragedy will come. Any effect of my actions and my voice– while they matter, as much as anything at all matters– are smaller than the whole scope of the problem.

And for a long time, I told myself that that anger that remained was bad. It was a character flaw. I must have hatred in my heart. I must be an unforgiving and cruel person. My anger was something I believed I should be ashamed of. I tried repenting of it– but that only led to ignoring it and trying to pretend it wasn’t there.

But it was. It is. And I suspect it always will be.

As long as racism, and patriarchy, and genocide, and rape, and murder, and war, and gender based violence, and all forms of oppression and injustice exist, so will my anger.

Some days it will simmer and quietly fuel my activism, and other days like today, it will rage and demand my attention.


My anger demands that I acknowledge its source.  That I acknowledge that it is justified. That it is right and good to see the wrong in the world being done to human beings and to be enraged. My anger demands that I acknowledge that pain and suffering and injustice are completely unacceptable and that I should never accept nor turn a blind eye to it.

My anger demands that I see it fully, thus beckoning me to honor it. It requires me to come close to myself. To hold my own pain, my own truth, my own rage– never to suppress or deny or fear or shame it– but to acknowledge it, to create space for it in my heart and mind, tenderly and with dignity, as I would a beloved friend.

So today, I share with you what I am sharing with myself. Your rage at injustice is valid. It matters. And its ok to hold space for it. I actually suspect that when you do, it will begin to feel less like a burden and more like a sacred companion.


With all my heart,




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