People love to talk about healing like it’s peaceful. Like it’s journaling, deep breaths, and saying the right words in therapy until everything feels manageable.
That’s definitely one version. It wasn’t mine.
My healing started with rage.
2020 wrecked me. Not in a poetic way. It was loss stacked on loss on top of years of barely holding it together. The kind of stress where stubbing your toe might’ve sent you to the psych ward.
I’m not even kidding.
I was raising kids alone, trying to function through grief, isolation, and a house that seemed to be falling apart right along with me.
There were days I lay on the floor because my head wouldn’t stop spinning. I remember thinking if someone just put their hands on my face, it might stop.
It didn’t.
And then one more thing went wrong.
I remember thinking, what else could possibly break at this point?
Around that same time, someone said something they meant as a kind of “life goes on” reminder:
“Bad things happen to everyone.”
And I fucking snapped.
Not outwardly – but internally, I pictured myself strangling her.
Not my proudest moment. Also not confusing.
Something in me flipped.
Not into peace. Not into acceptance.
Into pure, unfiltered rage.
And the wild part?
It worked.
That rage gave me momentum when sadness couldn’t get me off the floor. It got me moving. It got me out. It forced change when I didn’t have the strength to choose it calmly.
People don’t talk about that version of healing. It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. It doesn’t sound good in a quote.
But it’s real.
My healing didn’t start with softness. It started with being fucking done.
Done tolerating. Done quietly surviving things that were slowly killing me.
And that rage, that spite, and the momentum it gave me might be the only reason I made it out.
🖤 Hag