The Hunger Beneath My Anger

I didn’t expect this one to be about anger. But my body knew before I did.

I’ve been eating crap lately.

Not in some dramatic, bingeing way, but in small, quiet ways. Bread, I didn’t need. Sugar, when I wasn’t really hungry. Chocolate is a reward for surviving another emotionally heavy day.

And then, a few days ago, it hit me.

Pain in my stomach. A flare-up in my gallbladder. It was like my body was saying:

Stop.

At first, I thought I might just need a detox: more tea, less sugar, and more rest.

But this time, the more I slowed down, the more I felt — this wasn’t just about food.

I remembered.

I got angry this week. Really angry. Not just irritated, but flooded — the kind of anger that takes over your whole body.

And I thought I had worked through it.

I hadn’t. Not really.

It started with my mother. She said something, not intentionally, but it touched that familiar wound — the one made of fear and lack, the one that lives just beneath the surface.

Then something similar happened at work — with colleagues I love and respect. And again, I felt it rise. That feeling of not being heard.

Like my emotions didn’t matter. Like I had to hold everything inside.

Anger. Tension in my body.

A craving for control. A hunger that isn’t about food.

So I started asking:

Where is this anger coming from?

Is it fear? Grief? Exhaustion?

Or something older than all of that?

It’s all the times I said YES when I wanted to scream NO.

All the things I did when I didn’t want to — and then congratulated myself for surviving it.

My body is tired of being polite.

I’m not writing this from the other side. I’m still in it.

But I’m listening differently now. I’m starting to hear what my anger is trying to say.

I’m tired of being quiet.

I’m tired of pretending I’m okay.

I’m tired of doing it all alone.

So this week, instead of ignoring it, I placed my hand on my stomach, where the anger lives, and I whispered:

Thank you, anger! You protected me when I couldn’t speak. But I don’t need you to stay anymore.

And I asked my body to forgive me — For the sugar. For the silence. For the times I said yes when I meant no. For the ways I pushed it past its own knowing.

And I promised:

To slow down.

To listen.

To speak sooner.

To soften before I snap.

To eat when I’m hungry, not when I’m hurting.

To stop rewarding survival like it’s the only thing I know how to do.