15/05/2026
Recently, while talking to someone far wiser than I, I mentioned that a clear boundary of mine had been thoroughly stomped on. I told them how the pure rage I felt afterwards was almost funny in its intensity. It’s not something I feel often so it was unusual and uncomfortable.
I expected to be told I was being silly. To be reminded to take a deep breath. To stop being so melodramatic.
Instead, they suggested I make use of the rage. Use it in ceremony, perhaps.
The thought had never occurred to me. I think we’re often taught to shy away from anger — to swallow it down and smile sweetly while screaming inside, or imagining running someone over (purely in fantasy, of course).
But the older I become, the more useful that rage feels. It marks the overstep. It brings a sharp, undeniable knowing that something isn’t right — not in a small or gentle way, but in a way that demands attention.
Perhaps the trigger is small. Perhaps it’s enormous. Either way, whatever sets that fire burning deserves to be listened to.
Maybe it’s years of similar boundaries being crossed that made me wish for a flamethrower in my hands or a dragon at my side. Who knows. What I do know is this: the feeling is relevant, it is raw, and it is allowed.
So I will take that advice and use this rage in ceremony. I will let it clear the path ahead. I will let it burn away hesitation, doubt, and the quiet compromises that erode the edges of who I am.
And in that fire, the boundaries I refuse to have crossed will glow brighter than ever — visible, unmistakable, and impossible to ignore.
