The Soft Power of Rage

Not everything sacred is gentle.

Rage saved me.
Not because it was loud—
but because it was mine.

They tell us rage is ugly. Unfeminine. Unhinged.
But I’ve learned that rage, when rooted, becomes a compass.
Not chaos.

This isn’t the kind of rage that breaks windows.
This is the rage that wakes you up at 2 a.m. and whispers, “You deserve better.”
The kind that sits in your gut until your spine straightens.
Until your voice returns.
Until your silence becomes a sermon.

I’ve been quiet for people who didn’t deserve the peace I gave them.
I’ve softened edges that should’ve stayed sharp.
I’ve swallowed fire until I tasted blood.
But no more.

This rage I carry isn’t random.
It’s ancestral.
It’s holy.
It’s mine.

And here’s the truth they never teach us—

Rage is a boundary. Rage is a mirror. Rage is a prayer.
It doesn’t just burn bridges.
It builds altars.

So if you’ve ever been called “too much,”
Too loud. Too sensitive. Too dramatic.
Let me reframe it for you:
You were never too much. You were just too aware in a world built on numbness.

Let it burn.
Let it guide.
Let it free you.

Writing in smoke, truth in my teeth

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