Dear Anger: A Goodbye I Can’t Fully Give.

I want to let you go. I want to unclench my fists you taught me to make. I want to stop bracing for the next moment I’ll need you.

Because I’m tired. And you are heavy.

You’ve been my armor. My fiery escape. My last line of defense when the world felt cruel and confusing. You showed up when I was small and unheard, when apologies felt like performances, when silence was mistaken for peace.

You helped me survive. I won’t forget that. But survival isn’t the same as healing. And I’m trying to heal right now.

The truth is…you affect me more than I want to admit. You tighten my chest. You cloud my words. You make me question whether I’m safe, even when I am.

I’ve tried to exile you. Tried to shame you into silence. Tried to pretend I was “above” you. But you don’t leave. You linger in the corners. You whisper when I’m tired. You rise when I feel small.

So this isn’t a clean goodbye. It’s a boundary. It’s a reckoning. It’s me saying, I will not let you drive anymore. But I won’t throw you out of the car either.

You are a part of me. Not all of me. And I’m learning to live with you in ways that don’t scorch the people I love. In ways that don’t burn me up from the inside.

I want to let you go. But I’ll settle for holding you differently.