As 2026 begins, one of my strongest resolutions is this:
to have—and own—more of my anger.
I’m writing this both as a therapist and as someone who learned early to move away from anger rather than toward it. Those two voices aren’t separate for me. What I’ve learned professionally has grown out of what I’ve had to learn personally.
Over the years, I’ve noticed something again and again in my work:
The more comfortable people are with their anger—
along with contempt and healthy skepticism—
the less distress they experience in their closest relationships.
Not because they’re “angrier,”
but because they’re more at home in themselves.
I vividly remember my grandmother’s response to anger—a face of utter disgust. Like many people, I learned to banish my protests rather than give them a home.
When I say I’m choosing anger now, I don’t mean indulging it or acting it out.
I mean something quieter—and harder.
I’ve learned that anger wants company.
Not agreement or solutions—just presence.
To be heard.
To be joined for a time.
This is a shift that transforms relationships.
Anger becomes constructive the moment it’s appreciated and supported rather than feared or dismissed.
We were never meant to carry anger alone.
In isolation, it hardens into bitterness and resentment.
When met with presence, it becomes clarity, strength, and courage.
Over time—listening to my clients and being supported myself—I’ve learned that beneath almost every expression of anger is a simple truth waiting to emerge:
A longing for closeness without disappearing.
A longing to matter without having to earn it.
A desire for connection without conditions or demands.
This is also why I don’t want to sharpen my anger into blame.
Anger is an emotion.
Blame is a strategy.
Anger says, Something matters here.
Blame says, I don’t know how to stay with this feeling—someone has to carry it.
When anger has no safe relational landing place, it often turns into blame—not because it’s wrong, but because it’s alone.
There’s a bodily difference, too.
Anger, when it’s owned, has energy and strength.
Eyes sparkle; there’s something solid in the chest or belly.
Blame is tighter and sharper.
It narrows the breath and points—inward, outward, or both.
Unowned anger doesn’t disappear—it leaks.
It shows up as: irritation, withdrawal, moral superiority, or quiet contempt.
But anger that’s met—early and honestly—doesn’t need to accuse.
It can speak in the first person.
It can stay connected to what matters.
I see what happens when people don’t have this option.
They become tired—and sometimes, quite literally, sick.
A client once said to me:
“I’m not angry. I’m just tired.”
She was tired of saying yes when she meant no.
Tired of carrying the emotional weight of the relationship while calling it love.
As we stayed with it, her anger took shape—and her body changed.
Her shoulders dropped.
Her breath deepened.
There was less edge in her voice, not more.
Not rage, but a steady, aching clarity.
Her anger didn’t turn into blame.
It organized her.
It showed her where she had disappeared.
This is the kind of anger I’m choosing to take more seriously.
I’m angry about how many of us were conditioned to give up ourselves to keep others comfortable.
I’m angry that so many of us don’t know how to say no clearly—or how to ask cleanly for what we want—without guilt or collapse.
And I’m angry that relationships between people who care for one another can become so painful and threatening that distance feels safer than closeness. That conflict goes unresolved. That silence masquerades as peace.
This anger doesn’t feel hot to me.
It feels like deep caring—grieving and awake.
When I stay with it, when I don’t rush to be reasonable or understanding, it sharpens into something useful.
It tells me where I’ve over-adapted, where I’ve swallowed protest in the name of harmony, where I’ve accepted too little and called it maturity.
Owning my anger isn’t about becoming harsher.
It’s about becoming more honest—and more honest sooner.
Because anger, when it’s allowed to have company, often becomes the doorway back to self-respect— and from there, back to authentic connection.
This year, I’m practicing something simple — though I know I may never master it:
Listening more closely to myself.
Naming more clearly.
Letting anger be known before it hardens.
Not carrying it alone.
Photo by icecloudxx from Pexels.
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