Anger Is Where I Go First
When things feel uncertain or overwhelming, I don’t feel anxious first. I feel angry. It’s my default response—fast, sharp, and familiar. I hate this about myself. I don’t want to live my life as an angry man, constantly irritated at the world and everyone in it. I know, logically, that my anger doesn’t actually hurt the people I’m angry at—it only eats away at me. And yet, there it is. Again and again.
I wish I could say that when life feels heavy, I take a deep breath, center myself, and respond with calm wisdom. The truth is, I usually just get angry. Quickly. I hate how corrosive it feels, how easily it turns me into someone I don’t recognize—or particularly like. I don’t want to be bitter. I don’t want to be miserable. But pretending the anger isn’t there hasn’t helped, so I’m trying something new: telling the truth about it.
What makes this even harder is how quickly I turn on myself once the anger shows up. Sometimes that inner lecture works—for a moment. But let’s be honest, most of the time it doesn’t. I mean, who likes to be lectured to—especially when they’re already peeved? Now is not the time. Read the room, Jere. The anger just digs in deeper, almost as if it’s offended by being dismissed. And then I’m not only angry—I’m ashamed of being angry, or even angrier at the anger itself for refusing to cooperate.
What I’m starting to notice is that my anger rarely shows up out of nowhere. It shows up when I’m carrying too much and pretending I’m not. When things feel out of my control. When something feels unfair, unsafe, or unresolved. Anger arrives quickly, before I’ve had time to name what I’m actually feeling underneath it. It’s faster than grief. Louder than fear. More decisive than sadness. In a strange way, it feels like my system saying, Enough. Pay attention. Something here matters.
This week, that “something” has been layered. Grief resurfaced quietly at a funeral, reminding me that loss doesn’t move on a schedule just because we want it to. Pressure has been constant—responsibilities stacking, expectations piling up, people counting on me to hold things together. Add physical pain, uncertainty at work, and the mental gymnastics of being in too many places at once, and it all starts to feel like too much. I don’t experience that first as sadness or fear. I experience it as anger. Sharp, immediate, and insistent—because anger is what shows up when I don’t feel like there’s room to fall apart.
If I’m honest, I think anger shows up because it’s easier to feel than what’s underneath it. Anger keeps me upright when grief wants to pull me under, when exhaustion begs me to stop, when fear whispers that I can’t hold all of this. Anger gives me something solid to stand on. It mobilizes me. It keeps me functioning. And for a long time, that felt necessary—because falling apart didn’t feel like an option.
But I’m beginning to see the cost of that bargain. When anger is the only place I’m allowed to land, everything else gets crowded out. Grief has nowhere to go. Weariness gets ignored. Overwhelm turns into irritability instead of honesty. And the longer that happens, the smaller my world feels. I also hate how this shows up at home. Too often, the anger spills onto Allyson and the kids—the very people who didn’t cause it and don’t deserve it. They end up carrying the brunt of something that isn’t theirs, and that realization guts me. It leaves me feeling embarrassed, ashamed, and even harder on myself, which only feeds the cycle. Anger may keep me standing, but it doesn’t help me rest—and it certainly doesn’t help me love the way I want to.
This year, I’m not trying to get rid of my anger. I’m trying to stay with myself when it shows up. To pause instead of lecture. To ask what it’s protecting instead of telling it to behave. Sometimes that looks like prayer. Sometimes it’s a breath. Sometimes it’s just admitting, This is a lot, and I don’t have to solve it all right now. I don’t always get this right. But even noticing the pattern—without abandoning myself for it—feels like a different way of living.
I’m learning that thriving doesn’t mean the absence of anger, grief, or overwhelm. It means staying present when they arrive instead of disappearing from myself—or from the people I love. It means noticing what my body is carrying and choosing not to override it in the name of productivity or composure. Thriving, for me, looks less like having it all together and more like telling the truth about where I am—without shame. I don’t always do this well. But each time I stay, each time I choose presence over withdrawal, something in me softens. And maybe that’s how a fuller life begins—not by escaping what’s hard, but by growing through it.
I don’t think thriving is about mastering my emotions or outgrowing my anger. I think it’s about learning how to stay with myself in the middle of them—and trusting that God meets me there. Not after I’ve calmed down. Not once I’ve figured it out. But right in the middle of the mess. I’m learning to believe that presence is an act of faith—that staying in my body, telling the truth, and refusing to abandon myself is part of how God is shaping me. Thriving, for me, is choosing to remain open, honest, and rooted, even when life feels heavy. Especially then.
