When anger is a messenger.

Last night, I had a moment that I wasn't exactly proud of. 

I was walking my dog along Sunset Cliffs, deep in my head, ruminating over the ache of something that’s been heavy on my heart. The trail narrowed just as a large group of joggers—maybe thirty of them—came running toward me.

I stepped aside, guiding my dog tightly along the guardrail, doing my best to make space.

They ran past, one by one, without so much as a glance. No nod. No thank you.
(You can probably already hear the irritation rising in my narrative.)

And then—right as the last of them passed—I turned around and shouted, louder than I meant to:
“YOU’RE WELCOME! HAVE A NICE DAY!!”

Oof.
And then, I promptly burst into tears.

So… what really happened?

Spoiler alert: It wasn’t about the joggers.

I was already carrying something tender. I’d been walking with the weight of feeling invisible—misunderstood, unseen, unable to speak my truth. So when thirty people passed by without noticing the effort I made to move aside, it felt like the world was confirming that story.

And when I reacted—with sarcasm and volume—I felt misunderstood all over again. And that old familiar voice of shame inside reminded me that this reaction was an overreaction, and that I was obviously an asshole. 

What would’ve happened in the past?

I would’ve shoved that anger down.
Felt ashamed for even having a reaction.

Perseverated on it the entire walk home.

And later—without fully realizing it—I might’ve reached for a glass of wine or a little more dinner than I needed.
Not because I was hungry or celebrating.
But because I was trying to soothe the shame I felt…
for having a very human need:
To be seen.
To be acknowledged.
To matter.

But instead, I chose something I used to forget was even available.

I simply paused.

I let the tears stream down my face.
I took a breath.
I turned inward—toward the part of me that felt hurt.
Not to fix, change, or override it. Just to listen.

I asked:
“What do you need from me right now?”

The answer came quickly, softly:
“I just need you to see me.”

So I did.
I said: I see you. I’m here now.
And I met that part with understanding. With compassion.
As my tears subsided, I shook out my shoulders and hands. I stayed present. And the moment passed.  

The Buddhists say the roots of suffering are greed, anger, and ignorance—

and that we overcome them with generosity, compassion, and wisdom.

This moment brought me face to face with a deeper layer of anger I’d been carrying. And the real antidote wasn’t a clever reframe or a mindset shift.

It was compassion.

But here’s the thing.

Before my healing work began, I would’ve interpreted that teaching in a way that skipped over me entirely:

Be generous with them.
Have compassion for them.
“They’re probably focused, overwhelmed, running past dozens of people—how could they possibly acknowledge every single one?”

And the “wisdom”?
That would’ve been telling myself to be the bigger person.
Let it go. Rise above. Quit overreacting.

But never—not once—would I have thought to apply compassion or generosity to myself in that moment.

Instead, I would’ve felt ashamed for even feeling frustrated.
I would’ve judged myself for being “too sensitive,” for not being kinder or more evolved.
I would’ve criticized myself for failing to meet their behavior with grace.

Do you see what’s missing here?
The call was coming from inside the house.

Before I can genuinely, wholeheartedly offer compassion to someone else, I have to extend it inward first.
That’s not selfish.
That’s where true generosity begins. Because when we give what we’ve never given ourselves, we tend to give it away at our own expense.

So why am I telling you this?

Because maybe you’ve yelled at someone in traffic, or felt a flash of irritation in line at the grocery store—and judged yourself for it.

Maybe what you were feeling was something deeper.
Something tender.
Something that needed witnessing.

Maybe your anger isn’t something to get rid of.
Maybe it’s a part of you waving its arms, saying:
“Please see me. Please stay with me.”

What if, instead of shutting that part down, you stayed curious?
What if you asked it what it needed—and listened?

This is the heart of the work I do with women every day.

Not just regulating the nervous system, but building the capacity to become a safe, steady presence for yourself.

So that when anger shows up, or sadness, or shame… you know how to stay—instead of self-abandoning.

The next time something small feels way too big, I invite you to pause.
Turn inward.
Ask: What’s really happening here? What needs my attention?

You might be surprised by what you hear.
There’s wisdom there, waiting.