When Grief Requires RAGE: Rage as part of the path

There are seasons when silence is not avoidance…it is listening.

After I wrote about grief and honesty last blog, I stepped away for two weeks. Not because I had nothing to say, but because everything in me was tender.

My heart.

My body.

My soul.

So I let myself sit in witness.
Raw.

Soft.

Exposed.

My heart listened. My body listened. My soul listened.

I stepped back from words and from sharing because silence felt like the only honest language.

Grief required stillness, not explanation.

And then…

something else arrived...

Fire.

Rage!

This is the part of grief that doesn’t get much airtime, or even acceptance. We’re taught to associate grief with tears, quiet, and sorrow, but grief is not one-note.

It moves.

It shifts.

It deepens.

And after tenderness passes,

often comes the fire of Rage.

Anger.

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My grief moves in constant cycles.

When treatment works, even briefly, my body rejoices.

The clouds lift. Life feels possible again.

And when the improvement fades, the grief cuts deeper because I remember what it felt like to feel better.

My last two weeks were about sitting with the tenderness. I didn’t try to fix it or rush it along.

I allowed myself to feel fragile and raw, to simply listen.

But grief doesn’t stay soft forever…

This week, I am emerging with something boiling, rolling and powerful.

Anger.

Rage.

And I welcome it.

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Rage is not a failure of healing or spirituality. It is not something to suppress or tame.

Rage is fire, the hottest part of the flame, the part that melts what has kept us trapped, silent, or passive.

Rage says this matters.
Rage says something was taken.
Rage says I will not pretend this didn’t hurt.

Anger belongs in grief. It is a necessary part of the healing process, even though it’s often misunderstood and told to stand down. But anger propels movement. It pushes life forward. It refuses to let us remain an audience to suffering.

So I let it move.

I yell.

I cry.

I scream into pillows.

I go somewhere no one can hear me and let my voice shake the air. I cuss. I throw rocks. I let my body speak what words cannot.

I let the fire burn.

And when it’s ready, it will ease.

Ashes will remain.

I don’t yet know what will rise from them. I don’t need to know. For now, it’s enough to honor what is true.

This is my next layer of this grief cycle, not resolution, not closure, but fire.

A necessary ending that makes room for whatever comes next.

For now,

I rage.

A Note for You, If This Resonates

If anger is rising in you as you grieve, let it come.

Don’t rush to explain it away. Don’t tell it to calm down or behave. This, too, is grief. This, too, deserves to be felt and acknowledged.

Let your anger move in the ways your body needs: yelling, crying, screaming into a pillow, going somewhere private and letting your voice shake the air. Throw rocks. Cuss. Write it out. Let the fire burn without judgment.

Anger doesn’t mean you’ve failed at healing.
It often means you’re alive inside the loss.

Once acknowledged, this fire eventually softens. Ashes remain. And from there, something honest has space to emerge.

Whatever that may be for you.

If you’re walking a path of grief, illness, loss, or deep transformation, you don’t have to do it alone. I share reflections, support, and grounded honesty like this in my newsletter.

Words meant to meet you where you actually are, not where you’re told you should be.

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