Falling in Love with My Angry Self: A Journey Through Brainspotting
A few weeks ago, I found myself in the midst of an experience that left me grappling with a whirlwind of emotions—anger, betrayal, and the weight of an unspoken expectation to suppress my feelings for the comfort of others. The incident took place during a professional training, one where I had hoped to find solidarity and understanding, but instead, I felt profoundly let down.
The training was led by a Black woman, someone I initially thought would create a space where our voices would be heard and respected. Instead, she encouraged an audience, mostly composed of white women, to voice phrases like "Blue Lives Matter." In that moment, the room transformed into a hostile environment, one where a white therapist verbally attacked me and even called me "scary." The betrayal I felt was not just personal; it was collective—a sense that she had done harm not only to me but to every Black client these therapists would work with afterward.
I had hoped to find solidarity and understanding, but instead, I felt profoundly let down.
This betrayal was compounded by the release of the Sonya Massey video that same week. Although I couldn’t bring myself to watch it, I found myself in back-to-back sessions, helping my Black clients process the triggering components of that video. The weight of their trauma, combined with my own, was almost unbearable. Despite my best efforts—breathing exercises, meditation, and even a dip in a pool to wash away the heaviness—I still carried the anger with me. It was an anger so deep that it manifested physically in the form of heart palpitations, pushing me to contact my doctor for anxiety medication and to reach out to my therapist.
I had a sense that she had done harm not only to me but to every Black client these therapists would work with afterward.
After processing my feelings verbally, my therapist suggested we try a brainspotting session the following week. She also recommended that I spend an evening at Janet Jackson’s last concert in Phoenix, but that’s a story for another day. Brainspotting, for those unfamiliar, is a powerful therapeutic technique that helps individuals process trauma by focusing on specific eye positions that correlate with where the trauma is stored in the brain. I had been trained in brainspotting myself, but it had been years since anyone had used it on me. The last time was when I was deciding to leave a job, and after a weekend of training where clinicians practiced on each other, I put in my two weeks' notice the following Monday.
As I entered the brainspotting session with my therapist, I was a few weeks removed from the incident at the training. I felt ready to engage in this practice that had been so transformative for me in the past. My therapist used a rolling pass, moving her wand across the screen as my eyes followed. We paused at spots where I had the biggest reactions, and that’s when the memories began to surface.
I thought about working for a large nonprofit as the lone Black woman clinical manager and being tone-policed by my white colleagues. I remembered how they could have outsized tantrums during meetings while I was told to be cautious about my body language. This connected back to the Black woman trainer who had put me, and other women of color, in a situation where we had to control our anger and responses under the white gaze. I felt betrayed that she would create an environment where our trauma was not considered.
Next, my mind went to my experience on the school board, where I always had to be mindful of my tone while my white counterparts could raise their voices, talk over me, and challenge me freely. They were praised for their assertiveness, while I received death threats and harassment, simply for maintaining a measured tone. The anger I felt was also rooted in childhood memories, where I was told to be quiet or to "fix my face" when I had tantrums, or even to "shut up before I give you something to be quiet about."
These responses were not uncommon in households like mine, where parents who grew up in the South during the Jim Crow era passed down the lessons they had learned for survival. Black children were often told these things because society didn’t have grace for our emotions. The year after my parents were born, Emmett Till was murdered at 14, and a decade before that, George Stinney was executed at 14. Ruby Bridges, who is the same age as my parents, had to be escorted to school by Federal Marshals because of wild protests and death threats to her six-year-old life. Black children never got to be children, and the expression of anger could get you killed.
Black children were often told these things because society didn’t have grace for our emotions.
It dawned on me that, like many Black women, I had been kept from forming a relationship with my anger. But in that brainspotting session, I realized I wanted a relationship with my anger because it wasn’t fair that I had to continually suppress it for the comfort of others. The next image that came to mind was of comforting my niece as a toddler when she was angry. I rubbed her back, gave her kisses, and told her I loved her until she was ready to accept hugs from her mommy and apologize. I didn’t rush her anger; I loved her through it. This led to an image of my adult self holding my inner child through my anger, providing affirmation through soothing words and hugs, letting that part of me know it was loved.
And in that moment, I fell in love with my anger.
For Black women, finding love in our anger is not just about personal healing—it’s about survival and reclaiming our right to fully express ourselves. Holding in our emotions doesn’t just silence us; it actively harms us. A recent study highlighted the alarming connection between suppressed emotions and the onset of autoimmune disorders in Black women. The chronic stress of holding in pain, anger, and grief—emotions we’re often told to hide or minimize—can manifest physically, leading to conditions like lupus, rheumatoid arthritis, and other autoimmune diseases. This isn’t just a metaphorical harm; it’s a tangible, life-threatening reality.
For too long, Black women have been expected to endure in silence, to be the “strong” ones who carry the weight of the world on our shoulders without complaint. But this expectation comes at a steep cost. Our bodies keep score, and when we suppress our emotions, we are essentially turning that unexpressed pain inward, leading to physical and emotional breakdowns.
Reclaiming our right to fully express ourselves—our joy, our sorrow, and yes, our anger—is not a luxury; it is essential for our well-being. It’s a radical act of self-care and resistance against a world that often denies us the space to be whole. Embracing our anger is not just about validating our emotions; it’s about safeguarding our health, our sanity, and our lives.
As Zora Neale Hurston once said, “If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it.” This quote resonates deeply with me because it highlights the importance of expressing our emotions, including anger, to ensure that our experiences and struggles are acknowledged and validated. For Black women, finding love in our anger is not just about personal healing—it’s about survival and reclaiming our right to fully express ourselves.
Reclaiming our right to fully express ourselves—our joy, our sorrow, and yes, our anger—is not a luxury; it is essential for our well-being.
In my journey through brainspotting, I found love in the part of me that was angry, the part that had been silenced for too long. And I encourage every Black woman to seek spaces where they can not only express their anger but be loved through it. It’s time we all fall in love with our angry selves—not just for our emotional liberation, but for our survival.
