Sacred Rage
Recently I've felt the need to start writing again.
My book is complete now — ready to be uploaded and shaped into something visually beautiful. For a while I thought I had lost the manuscript entirely.
Gone. Disappeared into whatever strange void technology creates.
But then, as these things sometimes do, it reappeared.
At exactly the right time.
And maybe that's the lesson in itself.
Funny how life — or the universe, or whatever name you give the force that interrupts us — can stop you dead in your tracks.
We push and push our limits. Ignore the warning signs from our bodies. Swallow the words that need to be spoken. Dismiss what we already know deep down. Convince ourselves we'll deal with it later.
Until eventually something arrives that doesn't ask politely anymore.
A slap in the face.
A moment that says: Wake the fuck up before it's too late to do anything about it.
The last few months felt charmed at first. Like a fairytale.
Then reality settles in.
Then comes adjustment.
And somewhere inside that adjustment comes the confrontation with small-town thinking — which can be both blessing and curse wearing the same disguise.
Community can mean support. It can also mean scrutiny. Connection can become conformity. People know your name but not your story.
And lately, what I've been witnessing — particularly through the lens of being a woman — is something I can only describe as sacred rage.
Not explosive rage. Not destructive rage.
Sacred rage.
The kind that brews quietly beneath the exterior of being calm, capable, nice, understanding.
The kind born from years of keeping peace.
Navigating difficult people. Choosing diplomacy. Trying not to lose yourself while accommodating everyone else.
What I see in women around me — and what I recognise in myself — is not anger for anger's sake.
It's accumulated truth.
Rage at watching people dodge responsibility.
Rage at blame being thrown like confetti because accountability feels too uncomfortable. Rage at how easily people attack, intimidate, gossip, manipulate, or bully rather than communicate honestly and work toward resolution.
Because accountability requires courage.
Blame requires almost none.
And if I'm being completely truthful, there is still a part of me carrying anger for a lifetime of injustices.
For all the times you did the right thing.
You followed the process. You called out the bullshit. You stood up for yourself. You chose integrity over convenience. You tried to understand people. You showed kindness. You offered service when it was needed.
And somehow…
You still became the problem.
You still got blamed. Threatened. Misunderstood.
That kind of experience does something to you.
But sacred rage isn't permission to burn everything down.
It's information.
It tells you where your boundaries were crossed.
Where your values were violated. Where you abandoned yourself trying to keep everyone comfortable.
Maybe sacred rage isn't something to suppress.
Maybe it's something to listen to.
Not so it hardens us.
But so it finally teaches us where we end and other people begin.
This is not just about women. It is our men too. We are all in this collective together. Fumbling our way through with the limited tools we have to navigate this life.