For a long time, I was uncomfortable with my anger.
Not because it was explosive or out of control, but because it lingered. It sat quietly beneath the surface long after the situation had ended, showing up in unexpected moments. I told myself I should be over it. That I had processed enough. That continuing to feel angry meant I was stuck.
What I did not understand then was that anger does not always ask to be released.
Sometimes it asks to be understood.
The anger that stayed with me was not about retaliation or blame. It was not about wanting anything back. It was about fairness. About dignity. About the sense that something essential had been crossed and never properly acknowledged.
That kind of anger is easy to dismiss because it does not arrive loudly. It does not demand action. It simply remains present, waiting to be recognised.
I noticed it most clearly when I thought about how the final stages had been handled. Not just the ending itself, but the small frictions layered into it. Having to chase what should have been straightforward. Having to prove what was owed. Having to stay composed while something fundamental felt wrong.
That experience left a mark.
It was not just frustrating. It was diminishing. It communicated, without words, that fairness was conditional. That respect had an expiry date. That dignity was negotiable once your role was complete.
Anger arose not because I wanted conflict, but because something in me knew that this was not how it should have been.
For a long time, I tried to soften that anger into something more acceptable. Disappointment. Sadness. Fatigue. Those emotions were easier to hold publicly. Anger felt risky. It carried the fear of being seen as difficult or bitter.
But anger, when examined honestly, was doing something important.
It was naming a boundary that had been crossed.
It was telling me that what happened mattered. That my contribution deserved closure without struggle. That being made to fight for fairness after giving so much was not a small thing.
When I allowed myself to sit with that anger without judging it, something shifted. It stopped feeling sharp and started feeling steady. It no longer needed to be expressed outwardly. It needed to be integrated inwardly.
Anger does not always want to burn things down.
Sometimes it wants to restore balance.
It wants you to recognise where dignity was compromised so you do not normalise it again. It wants you to stop minimising experiences that required you to swallow too much for too long.
What I learned is that anger becomes destructive only when it is denied or displaced. When it is listened to, it becomes clarifying.
It tells you what you value.
It tells you what you will not accept again.
It tells you where fairness matters deeply to you, even if you were taught to prioritise harmony over truth.
If you are carrying anger that does not seem to fade with time, I want you to consider this gently.
Ask yourself what it is protecting.
Not what it is ruining.
Anger that arises from crossed dignity is not something to get rid of.
It is something to integrate.
And when you do, it no longer controls you.
It steadies you.
Copyright © 2026 Lynette Diehm.
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced without written permission of the author.
