Some time ago, an encounter ignited my rage to such an extent that I was forced out of autopilot and into inquiry: What was the message of the rage? What could this rage teach me? What began as a single explosive incident became a doorway to learning healthier expression, clearer boundaries, and a kinder relationship with my own rage and anger.
Anger is often thought of as a straightforward red flag—a quiet signal that a boundary has been crossed. But rage is something more visceral. It’s a primal wave that sweeps us off our feet, blurs our vision, and leaves us feeling out of control.
From early childhood, the people and systems around us teach us how to control our rage: parents soothe or scold, teachers reward restraint, peers ridicule outbursts, and cultural scripts classify some expressions as acceptable and others as shameful. Religion, social norms, and institutions further shape whether rage is seen as a source of power or a moral failing. Over time, these external responses become internalised—and rather than consciously engaging with our rage, we default to shame, silence, suppression, or delayed explosive release as ways to cope.
The encounter that triggered my rage exposed the truth about a project I had hoped would be a beautiful collaboration. I was invited by academic partners from the Global North to help facilitate a community conversation about food insecurity. I went in with an open heart, eager to bring my years of experience to the table as a co-creator. However, from our first briefing, the reality was very different. Instead of a shared exploration, I experienced a rigid, preset meeting agenda. It felt less like a conversation and more like a proposal for an extractive ‘data harvest’—with the final goal being gathering community insight to bolster research, rather than to support community needs.
During subsequent planning, my colleague and I repeatedly raised methodological concerns, expecting them to be taken seriously, but our input was dismissed. Our frustration kept building at meetings: every time we flagged process flaws, our partners shut down our interventions. Despite recognising how triggering our participation had become, we silenced ourselves—hoping the convention would be different. But that self‑silencing made us complicit in creating a space where community voices were instrumentalised to legitimise academic research.
Over the two‑day convention, our partners continued to sideline us while maintaining the pretence that we were co‑convenors. In reality, we were pushed to the margins as ushers; no longer the ‘weavers’ of a sacred process, our protests were dismissed as too emotional.
Unpacking the Fire
Afterwards, I took a deep breath and sat with the fire that their marginalisation and micro-aggressions ignited in me. I realised my rage wasn’t bad—it was actually a form of love for my work and a deep commitment to my own politics and how I want to work. When I unpacked my rage, I acknowledged the following about the process up to then:
- It felt deeply painful to be a part of something that felt extractive rather than inclusive.
- I felt torn. My professional side told me I had to stay to see the process through, but my soul knew that staying was lending my name to a process that wasn’t right.
- It was deeply wounding to offer my wisdom, only to have it dismissed as a problematic outburst.
In the end, I realised that walking away was the most honest thing we could do. It wasn’t an act of giving up but of self-care and respect for the communities we serve.
The experience, as difficult as it was, taught me something beautiful. It reminded me that real change can’t happen without real relationships. You can’t have transformation without trust, and you can’t have co-creation without a seat at the table for everyone.
As I write this today, I recommit myself to a more approachable and honest way of working. I remember to align with partners who value ‘we’ over ‘me’ and understand that the most powerful spaces are built on integrity, mutual respect, and the courage to listen to the quietest voice in the room. I’m learning to see my rage not as a flaw, but as a compass pointing me back home.
This is what rage has taught me:
#1: Honour your rage
Anger and rage carry vital information and energy, and we may need to sit with that discomfort before we can hold, recognise, and own it. As Audre Lorde wrote, “…we have had to learn to orchestrate those furies so that they do not tear us apart. We have had to learn to move through them and use them for strength and force and insight within our daily lives.” Deep anger can shatter passivity and spur action for justice; when intentionally directed, it can broaden access to resources and clear a path to authenticity, intimacy, self‑esteem, and joy.
#2: Name the true source of your rage/anger
Although rage signals that something is wrong, unexamined venting stops at the emotion itself. On the other hand, naming the source of your rage can redirect it into strategic action. Naming the true source of our rage requires that we remember histories of both freedom and oppression—tracking what sustained us and what sought to destroy us. By naming the source of rage, we move beyond displays of emotion and power and access its potential as a source of empowerment and transformation.
#3: Transforming rage into power
Figuring out what to do with rage means sitting with it long enough to understand its message. Strategic action turns rage into focused power: it provides direction, structure, and sustainable tactics to convert emotion into measurable change. It also amplifies impact by building collective leverage, protecting participants, and translating moral urgency into policy, resources, and lasting accountability. To do so, it may be helpful to ask:
- “What am I really angry about?” “What is the problem, and whose problem is it?”
- “How can I learn to express my anger in a way that will not leave me feeling helpless and powerless?”
- “What risks and losses might I face from my choice of strategy?
- “If getting angry is not working for me, what can I do differently that will leave me feeling empowered?”
- “Who are the people who can help me navigate my rage, people who are prepared to have courageous conversations and committed to real change?”
Similarly, at the collective level, we can transform our rage into organised advocacy, targeted campaigns, coalition-building, and policy-focused demands that pursue concrete justice and systemic change.
#4: Channel rage into creativity/healing
Channel rage into creative outlets like journaling, poetry, painting, music, dance, or performance to transform feeling into meaning and message. For healing, therapy, somatic practices (breathwork, yoga, bodywork), meditation, nature walks, or supportive circles and rituals can help hold and process the emotion of rage.
#5: Seek community
Share your process with trusted peers, support groups, or allies, as this approach will provide validation, shared care, and collective strategy. Community can provide a space to hold the emotion, reducing isolation and multiplying our capacity to heal and act.
#6: Self-care
Self-care for rage and anger can occur at various levels. At the somatic level, it is important to ground the body: you could use breathwork, cold water, walking, or progressive muscle relaxation to settle acute arousal.
At the emotional level, it is important to assess what is needed, such as reasserting boundaries or engaging in release and repair.
Finally, consider therapy, coaching, or trauma-informed modalities if rage is frequent or overwhelming.
