A woman’s anger is the most powerful force. It is creation. It is beautiful and sacred destruction. It can change the world.
She slumped down on the couch again, as tears welled up behind her eyes like a misty, grey rain. But this time, she didn’t cry. She didn’t blame herself for another person’s bad behavior. She didn’t automatically apologize and give in, only to regret it later. She didn’t bully herself into silent submission. And she didn’t freeze like a deer in the headlights, immediately pushing her opinions down.
Because she wasn’t actually sad.
She was angry.
Maybe it had finally caught up with her—all the times she’d smiled when she wanted to scream, all the times she’d said yes but really meant no, and all the times people had crossed her boundaries while she sat there and took it.
Maybe she’d finally had enough—of feeling invisible, helpless, and voiceless.
Maybe she was done with toxic relationships, with men who didn’t respect her bountiful heart, with giving too much, and with taking on too much of other people’s crap.
The impact of unspoken words and suppressed emotion poked inside her like the sharpest thorns.
It was suffocating—and she wanted to breathe fully. Oh, how she longed to break free.
Because she was done—with lovers quickly discarding her needs, with being treated in less than savory ways, and with her kindness and softness constantly being mistaken for naivety and weakness.
She finally got angry.
She could not dampen the flames for a moment more—for she was not meant to.
She let the pure, transformative fire of raw emotion lick at her feet like a bubbling, bright orange sea. She breathed in deeply—and bravely, oh so bravely—and she dove in.
Rage rose up from her feet and rippled through her entire body. It undulated in her hips and belly. Fury burned in her stomach and arms. It was so goddamn freeing.
The smile that had been perpetually pinned to her face for the last 10 years slid off, and she snarled like a wolf left in luscious solitude to run wild through the muddy forest. Branches and twigs snapped beneath her bestial paws, in the hot pulsation of her frenetic, lightning-like pace.
All of her politeness vanished.
Any part of her that could be manipulated or stretched thin by someone else’s needs evaporated.
All of the heaviness of the guilt and shame dissipated.
In that moment, she glistened only in the raw, transformative glory of her process.
Naked—with mud streaked through her hair like earthen highlights—she stood tall.
She was simply done with all bullsh*t.
She was done living a less-than life. She was done allowing her vibrant spirit to wither away, just for the sake of making someone else happy. She was done being uncomfortable, quiet, and afraid just to avoid making waves.
What about her heart—her needs? Did that not matter too?
Yes. It mattered dearly. She began to care about that.
And it felt like she woke up from a slumber that had nearly killed her.
She growled. She howled. She turned up the riotous, bangin’ songs of her heart, her truth—and let it all out.
She screamed. She shook. She shimmied. She spiraled her hips into infinity.
She held back nothing.
Like a tiger goddess barreling buck naked through the Amazon rainforest, she got primal. She channeled Kali. She stuck out her tongue and gave not a single f*ck what anyone else thought.
She surrendered to the fierceness pulsing through her.
There was such potency in her wildness.
There was such sacredness in her letting go.
There was such sublime joy in her unedited expression.
As she embodied herself—feeling the richness of her anger, with howls escaping her sweaty lips—she realized that the anger was a pathway back to herself.
The rage was holy.
And in the smoke, she could rise.
All the parts of her beautiful self that she had abandoned, chopped off, made small, silenced, or gave away to someone else—she took them all back now. She yelled out loud—a prayer of its own goddess order—and called all of her missing pieces back to her.
It was like her soul came home.
And as she danced and moaned, her hair cascading like a gushing waterfall—she felt power rushing into every cell of her body, like golden-hot electricity.
It was her power.
Her right to feel her feelings—all of them.
It was the sacred staccato sound of her “no.”
It was her beauty and belief in herself.
She cascaded into wholeness.
In the fiery lap of her anger, she was reborn.
In the crackling flames, she spit truth with every breath. She rose like a determined phoenix, and transformed her pain into art. Healing. Change. Love. Strength. A life she loved. Meaningful, budding words that begged to tumble out of her mouth and bless the world.
Then, she fell to her knees in devoted surrender, tears streaming down the sandy banks of her cheeks, because she was so deeply moved—for it was then that she remembered who she really was.
She remembered what it meant to be a woman.
To be magic.
To be wild.
To be free.
To be loud.
To be wise, drenched in knowing.
To be soft—and so strong in this softness.
To be potent, sensual, and sexy, fully owning the supple, river-like curves of her femininity.
Yes, she remembered what it was to be a woman—and all the gutsy, goddess gloriousness that comes with that.
She stroked the earth beneath her feet—cool and sprinkled with moss—and connected with the Great Mother.
She was left naked and raw.
She moved through it all.
The anger had forged a beautiful fire, for it burned through her fear and doubt. Through the lethargy and hopelessness, it cut through the silence and depression that kept her stuck for years.
She was reborn, right there on the forest floor, with the tall spruce trees as her only witness.
She would look back and cherish this moment, seeing it as the most wonderful—and yes, painful—breakthrough.
Because anger has a purpose. It can be sacred. Rage can be an inspired call to action. It can be the catalyst to empower ourselves when we’re not being treated well. It can be a sign that we’re unhappy and thirsting madly for something new. It can motivate us to get up and do something. Say something. Assert ourselves. Draw boundaries. Speak our needs. Stand up for what we deserve. And let our voices be heard.
Anger was an essential part of her healing process. To deny it would be to deny herself—it would be to deny the freedom and change that she so badly wanted for years now.
She no longer needed to drown passively in the seas of her silent sorrow. She could take charge of her life.
She was free in knowing this.
And she become more complicated, edgier, wilder—and more intrinsically beautiful.
These new textures suited her well.
Her edges gleamed and pulsated. Her shadows no longer were a place that were marked “off-limits” with bright yellow caution tape, but a proud part of her.
Anger was no longer forbidden.
Darkness dripped onto her tongue, fusing with her light, and she was no longer afraid of it.
She finally got angry—and the flames blooming from this anger saved her life.
It cleared away the cloudiness of her confusion and doubt.
It made her remember that she is fire.
She will burn.
She will rise.
She will speak out.
She will heal.
She will love.
She will be free.
There was absolutely no way that she could continue to stay small…
So she didn’t.
Author: Sarah Harvey
Editor: Yoli Ramazzina