Mad Woman

On being (and staying) angry

A few months ago, a friend invited me on a rage walk.

I don’t think that’s exactly what he called it, but rage walk is what I heard. This friend is shockingly brilliant and unerringly kind, and in his many (many!) post-grad studies, he became curious about the relationship between evangelicalism and repressed anger. So he started taking walks with people he cared about deeply, and used the movement and isolation and time as a launchpad for getting at some of that pent-up fury. He warned me before our rage walk that sometimes poking at unreleased anger will lead to unexpected physical expression: tears, of course, but also screaming, shaking, even vomiting. We are whole beings, integrated souls and minds and bodies, and to think that we can separate one part from another is utter foolishness. I understood. I felt ready. Eager even.

Nothing happened.

We walked, we talked. He asked thoughtful, leading questions that allowed me to look at past pain and injustice with an unblinking intensity. I could see each injury in technicolor, and I knew that I had every right to be furious about a multitude of sins that had been committed against myself and others. But the second that bright spark of anger blazed in my chest, it was immediately quenched by an overwhelming sense of sadness.

If Taylor Swift has taught us anything, it’s that no one likes a mad woman (or a successful one, but that’s an article for another day).

And there's nothin' like a mad woman
What a shame she went mad
No one likes a mad woman
You made her like that
And you'll poke that bear 'til her claws come out
And you find something to wrap your noose around
And there's nothin' like a mad woman

mad woman, Taylor Swift, 2020

I grew up in what many would consider to be an evangelical tradition (technically a Protestant, Calvinist denomination with roots in the Dutch Reformed Church and an emphasis on God’s sovereignty, the importance of scripture, and piety), and that upbringing has unavoidably shaped the woman I am today. I don’t regret my background, and I’m grateful for the firm foundation that has held me fast through so much of life’s chaos. But I’m discovering that some of the things I was taught (explicitly or implied) have deeply impacted my understanding of myself and the world around me—and not necessarily in a healthy way. At the top of the list? My inability to feel anger.

The lesson I absorbed as a child and young woman was that girls are to “keep sweet.” Be obedient, soft-spoken, and kind. Serve with a glad and gentle heart. Never complain. Be deferential. Know your place. Wild displays of emotion (primarily anger) are unbecoming a woman at best and hysterical at worst. That’s why women can’t be trusted as leaders, and should be relegated to the background where their uncontrollable feelings won’t impact important decisions or get in the way of “men’s work.”

It was a suppression-to-sadness pipeline.

I understand that now. I understand that this flawed logic formed me: Because I’m feeling something very big—and I’m not allowed to be angry—that emotion has to go somewhere, and sadness is the most logical sidestep. I’m sad that I can’t say or do anything. Sad that I’m not supposed to feel the way I do. Sad that my voice doesn’t matter. Just plain sad.

I’m neither a biblical scholar nor a psychologist, so analyzing the lasting impacts of this distorted thinking is something I’ll leave for the professionals. Thankfully, things have changed a lot in the years between, and my church today has as many women in positions of leadership as men (at times, even more). But those early lessons have sunk deep into my bones, and whether I like it or not, my default setting is to override anger the instant it begins to boil. It’s like an unwanted kill switch in my gut.

It’s not okay.

My suppressed anger comes out sideways, often in an attack against my own body. At times that has translated into inexplicable medical events, intense feelings of self-loathing, or a desperate need to dissociate. The sense that because I am not allowed to feel this: there must be something deeply wrong with me for feeling this. But that’s a false equivalency and one that has done great harm to me—and many others, I imagine. And let’s be honest. This isn’t just a girl problem. I suspect the vast majority of us have absolutely no idea how to handle our fury.

Here’s the thing: I am angry. Downright incandescent with rage.

Because:

• 50,000 Palestinians have been killed since the start of the war—and Trump wants to turn Gaza into the Mar-a-Lago of the Middle East

• Russia recently struck a children’s hospital as peace talks continue

• Lawyers and advocates say 48 people are unaccounted for after ICE raids in New Mexico

• The measles outbreak has surpassed 350 cases and is expected to keep growing—even though there is a safe, effective vaccine that prevents the disease

• There is a risk of 2,000 new HIV infections a day after the US aid freeze

• Trump is ripping North America apart

• etc. etc. etc.

But maybe instead of being wrong (something I have to suppress), the anger I feel at the staggering cruelty, corruption, and injustice we are witnessing today is good and healthy. Exactly right.

Maybe anger can be holy.

In John 2:13-17, the story of Jesus clearing the temple courts is recorded. I’ve heard “Jesus flipped tables” as an excuse for savage behavior, a sort of catch-all for the times when we let our fury get the best of us and act out in ways that are, frankly, unconscionable. Of course this passage is not a get out of jail free card for our bad behavior. But I don’t want to talk about the table-flipping part today. I want to focus on what came before.

“So he made a whip out of cords...” (John 2:15, NIV)

Other translations use the word braided. An act of creation, a basic sort of handmade art. Jesus was angry, but instead of lashing out, he took the time to gather the materials he needed, sat down, and wove together the leather bands that would help him carry out justice. I wonder how long it took. If he had to purchase the materials or if he just found them lying around. How did his hands know to braid? Three strands or more? Four are often used for ropes or paracord, but an eight-strand braid is widely considered to be the strongest. Not many people know how to weave eight strands.

I’ve always been a detail person, and this detail (just eight short words!—I love the symmetry) awakens something in me. Somehow, it seems there is much to learn about anger from this blink-and-you-miss-it clause.

Perhaps instead of lashing out like madmen (and women) we can be calm in our anger. Measured and intentional. In taking the time to consider the source of our fury and how best to approach next steps, maybe we can turn our anger into something that is good and useful. Instead of falling into sadness (which for me is often weak and ineffectual, a catalyst for curling up with a cozy blanket and believing the lie that everything is hopeless and there’s nothing I can do anyway) or blind rage (which is rash and fruitless, often causing more harm than good), maybe we can and should take the time to proverbially braid a whip. Slowly. Purposefully. With a rich understanding of the injustice we hope to call out and a carefully designed plan to do it.

This has become my battle cry:

May anger be the spark that lights the fuse of my explosive compassion.

I don’t want to be shushed into submission OR chained to the consequences of my unadulterated rage. Instead, I want to nurture the flame that ignites me so that I can do good in the world. Free the captive and speak on behalf of those whose voices and rights have been stripped away. Stand up boldly for what I believe in. Have honest conversations even when my words are garbled and my heart is pounding wildly in my chest. Take the time to think before I act, to braid my cord with deliberateness and design so that my words and my actions align. So that at the heart of my (wholly righteous and holy, healthy) anger is the glow of integrity.

In Madeleine L’Engle’s classic, A Wrinkle in Time, a girl’s fury is the catalyst that propels her through time and space to save not just her father but the entire cosmos from the dehumanizing power of IT. One of her mentors recognizes the necessity and potential for goodness in Meg’s rage:

“Stay angry, little Meg,” Mrs Whatsit whispered. “You will need all your anger now.”

―Madeleine L'Engle, A Wrinkle in Time

Stay angry, my friends. Not in a blind, destructive, catastrophic way, but in the manner of a refining fire. May we continue to light up the world around us with our passion and thirst for justice. And may that single spark in you and me set the world ablaze.

Thanks for reading. xoxo - Nicole

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, a roundup of world-class journalists who call Iowa home. I invite you to check out the group and become a paying member of one or more of our pages.