It’s Gotta Go Somewhere
I’ve always attached to the identity as a peacekeeper. A people-pleaser. The one who calms the room, smooths the edges, keeps everyone else comfortable. For as long as I can remember, conflict has terrified me. I would swallow my feelings before I’d ever risk making someone upset. Conflict was always unsafe, dangerous, and forbidden territory.
But a few Sunday’s ago, something in me woke up.
A woman barked at my daughter and I as we were leaving her tumbling class. It was over something totally ridiculous, but honestly that piece doesn’t matter for the sake of this blog. And instead of freezing or shrinking, I surprised myself: I stood tall, I defended us, and I did it without apology. My voice didn’t shake. My body felt strong. I was rooted, grounded, fierce.
For the first time, I felt the pure power of my aggression—and it didn’t feel scary. It felt locked in. Aligned. It may sound weird, but I felt this rally of celebratory energy.
GOOD. You stood up for yourself. You stood up for your kid. You didn’t cower at the face of conflict.
It’s strange to admit that I have aggression inside me, because I’ve spent a lifetime hiding it. As a child, it wasn’t safe to be angry. Anger meant punishment, rejection, abandonment. So, I tucked it away, convincing myself I didn’t feel it. But repression doesn’t erase energy—it only buries it.
And when I found myself in that moment on Sunday, all of that buried fire came rushing out, not as chaos, but as clarity.
Since then, I’ve been sitting with a truth I didn’t want to see before: I have so much aggression inside me. So much energy that’s been waiting for years to be acknowledged, expressed, and released.
And maybe you can relate—especially if you’ve lived your life as a people-pleaser. The thing about always choosing harmony is that it often comes at the cost of your own voice, your own truth, your own body’s natural impulses. Eventually, that energy has to go somewhere.
What I’m learning now is this: aggression isn’t bad. It’s not ugly or shameful. Aggression is life force. It’s raw power. It’s the part of me that knows how to say no, how to protect, how to stand firm. The problem has never been the aggression itself—it’s that I never had safe ways to let it move through me.
Now, I’m beginning to give myself permission to release it. To scream into a pillow. To shake my body until it trembles out what’s stuck. To stomp the ground and feel the reverberation in my bones. To let sound and movement carry out what’s been trapped for decades. To breathe active and full and fierce until the tears come streaming. To speak it through boundaries of a quivering voice that’s felt quiet since I can remember.
It’s messy. It’s uncomfortable. And at the same time—it’s liberating.
Because every time I allow a little more of that energy to move, I feel lighter. Stronger. Clearer.
On Sunday, I saw a version of myself I didn’t know existed. The part of me that is protective, fierce, and unwilling to let harm pass unnoticed. And instead of being ashamed of her, I’m learning to welcome her.
She isn’t dangerous. She isn’t too much. She isn’t broken.
She is me—fully alive.
If no one has told you today, I love you. I believe in you. And I respect your journey.
With Love & Light,
JJ
