I have learned how to be angry. Like really righteously angry.
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The last six years of my life have been a roller coaster of wonderful and terrible things. I have had moments of joy be completely stripped away by moments of hopelessness and desperation. I have been on my knees in prayer more times than I can count simply asking the Lord to “Help Me.” I have yelled at him. I have shook my hands at him. I have told him like a two-year-old having a temper tantrum that “this isn’t fair!!!”
In my marriage, I didn’t dare show my anger. I would hide in my bedroom and throw pillows. And scream silently. There is a Coldplay lyric that speaks to me so authentically, “I’m dead on the surface, but I’m screaming underneath.”
I lived that life for way too long.
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Ladies, we have been told we should be quiet. We should be meek. We should be sweet. Don’t dare show anyone when you’re frustrated. Don’t yell at your kids. Don’t tell your husband he’s being a jerk. Don’t stand up for yourself when things are clearly wrong.
Just turn the other cheek. Suck it up. You’re doing it for everybody else, right? Isn’t this how we set the proper example for behavior?
I’m here to tell you that that is wrong. I told the women in my class today as we were punching the bags—to get righteously angry. Whatever it was that they brought into class, I wanted them to leave it. Because when we stuff things, when we stay quiet, when we try to keep the peace, we just do more damage to everyone around us and our ourselves.
Secrets make us sick. Stuffing anger makes us sick. So get angry. Maybe don’t say the F word as much as I do (
) but tell someone when you’re mad. Raise your voice. Throw pillows. Or punch an inanimate object.
It’s OK. It’s actually better than OK. It’s necessary.
Oh, and teach your daughters. They need to know how to be angry so that they can thrive, love others honestly— and most importantly honor themselves.
Love and light,
Ev