Merry Christmas!

I’ve never responded to emotions the way most people seem to. When others cry, I grow quiet. When others show compassion, I tend to push away. But when I feel threatened, frustrated, or lost, anger comes easily. It’s the one emotion I’ve always understood—at least on the surface. For much of my life, it seemed like anger was the only emotion I had at my disposal, the only one I could wield effectively. What I didn’t realize then was that anger was never the real emotion. It was a shield, hiding something much more fragile beneath.

Looking back, my relationship with anger and emotions didn’t start with a single event. It was shaped over years of experiences, especially my relationship with my mother and the environment in which I was raised. Emotions, in my family, were never talked about openly. My mother, a strong yet profoundly difficult person, carried the weight of life with a practicality that often left little room for vulnerability. But she wasn’t just practical; she was harsh. Mean, even. My mother was a narcissist—someone who needed everything to revolve around her, someone who thrived on control and manipulation.

“Crying doesn’t solve anything,” she would say, and I believed her. I learned to swallow my tears, to suppress any feelings that might be seen as weak. Over time, anger became my default response—not because I wanted it to be, but because it felt safer than sadness, easier than fear, and more acceptable than vulnerability.

But this isn’t a story of blame or regret. It’s a story about growth—about learning to understand my emotions, reshape my responses, and connect with myself and others in ways I never thought possible. It’s been a long, winding road, filled with setbacks and breakthroughs, and I’m still walking it today. This is my journey—a deeply personal story about anger, self-discovery, and the power of learning to feel.

My earliest memories of emotions are tied to rules—unspoken, invisible rules that governed how we were allowed to feel and express ourselves. In my family, emotions were measured carefully, like ingredients in a recipe. A little bit of joy? Fine. Too much excitement? Tone it down. Anger was permissible, but only if it had a purpose. Sadness, on the other hand, was almost never acceptable. “Don't show that you are upset, it makes you look weak.” my mother would say whenever emotions threatened to spill over.

She wasn’t just unkind; she was dismissive. My mother had a way of making everything about her. If I was upset about something at school, it wasn’t long before the conversation turned to how my problems were trivial compared to hers. If I cried, it was an inconvenience to her. “Stop being dramatic,” she’d snap, as if my emotions were a personal affront. Over time, I learned that it was easier to stay quiet, to bury my feelings and let them fester.

But anger—anger was different. Anger felt like something she couldn’t ignore. When I was angry, I could command attention, even if it was negative. It became my language, my way of communicating when nothing else seemed to work.

My mother’s narcissism extended far beyond moments like these. She needed to be the center of attention, and she often achieved this by diminishing others. If I achieved something—a good grade, a small victory at school—it was met with a half-hearted “That’s nice,” followed quickly by a story about her own childhood accomplishments. She had a way of making me feel invisible, as if my successes and struggles were insignificant compared to her own.

Over time, these patterns shaped how I saw myself. I began to internalize the idea that my feelings and achievements didn’t matter. The only way to assert myself was through anger. It was the only emotion that seemed to demand recognition. Yet even as I relied on it, I began to resent it. Anger gave me a voice, but it also isolated me. It made me feel powerful in the moment, but hollow afterward.

If my childhood laid the foundation for my relationship with anger, adolescence built the walls. The teenage years are tumultuous for anyone, but for someone like me—someone who had learned to mask every emotion except anger—they were especially challenging. Hormones, peer pressure, and the search for identity clashed with my inability to process emotions in a healthy way. The result was a series of misunderstandings, arguments, and fractured relationships that left me feeling more isolated than ever.

In school, I was often labeled as “moody” or “hot-headed.” Teachers would comment on my “lack of emotional control,” and peers would either avoid me or push my buttons just to see me explode. I didn’t know how to explain to them—or to myself—that my anger wasn’t about them. It was about me. It was about fear, insecurity, and a deep-seated frustration that I didn’t have the tools to express.

My relationship with my mother also changed during this time. We were too similar in some ways, and our arguments became a battleground. She saw my anger as defiance, while I saw her stoicism as a lack of understanding. I remember one particularly heated exchange when I was nine. I had gotten a 75 on a math test, and she was disappointed. “You’re smarter than this,” she said, her voice tinged with frustration. “You’re not trying hard enough.”

Her words felt like an attack, even though I knew she meant them as encouragement. I yelled something hurtful in return, stormed off to my room, and slammed the door. In the silence that followed, I felt a wave of regret, but I didn’t know how to bridge the gap between us. Apologizing felt too vulnerable, so I stayed angry instead.

But it wasn’t just our arguments that shaped my adolescence. My mother’s narcissism cast a long shadow over every aspect of my life. She had an uncanny ability to turn any situation into a reflection of herself. If I was upset about something, she’d find a way to make it about her. If I was happy, she’d find a way to dampen my joy. Her need for control and attention was suffocating, and I often felt like I couldn’t breathe.

There was one incident in high school that encapsulated this dynamic perfectly. I had worked for weeks on a science project, pouring my heart into every detail. When I won first place at the school fair, I was overjoyed. But when I told my mother, her response was muted. “That’s nice,” she said. Then, without missing a beat, she launched into a story about her own academic achievements, which didn't even amount to much. By the time she was done, my victory felt small and insignificant. I remember going to my room that night and crying—not because I was sad, but because I was angry. Angry at her for making it about herself. Angry at myself for letting it bother me.

The turning point in my journey didn’t come all at once. It wasn’t a single epiphany or dramatic event, but a series of small moments that added up over time. The first real shift came in my early twenties. By then, I had begun to see the patterns in my behavior. I had pushed away friends, strained family relationships, and burned bridges because of my inability to manage my emotions. These problems didn’t just cause me to feel isolated—they actively reshaped the way people saw me, and I saw myself through their eyes.

At work, I became known as someone who was difficult to approach during stressful situations. I remember one specific project where I lashed out at a colleague who questioned my approach to solving a problem. They weren’t wrong, but my immediate reaction was to assume they were challenging my competence. My angry retort not only derailed the meeting but also left a noticeable rift in our working relationship. It took months to repair the trust I had broken, and even then, things were never quite the same.

One moment stands out in particular. I was arguing with a close friend over something trivial. I can’t even remember what started it, but I remember how it ended. I said something cutting, something meant to hurt, and the look on their face stopped me cold. They didn’t yell back. They didn’t argue. They just looked at me with a mix of sadness and frustration and said, “Why are you always so angry?” I miss that friend.

That question stayed with me long after the argument was over. Why was I always so angry? It wasn’t a question I had ever asked myself before. Anger had always felt like a reflex, something automatic and uncontrollable. But now I began to wonder if it was a choice—one I was making without even realizing it. And if it was a choice, could I choose differently?

The problems anger caused didn’t stop at work or friendships—it affected my romantic relationships as well. I can’t count the number of times I let small disagreements escalate into major arguments. My inability to step back and assess the situation rationally caused me to lose people who genuinely cared for me. At one point, I began to believe I was incapable of maintaining a meaningful relationship. I carried a fear of abandonment that only exacerbated my emotional volatility. This vicious cycle left me doubting my worth and my ability to change.

The process of answering these questions wasn’t easy. It involved a lot of self-reflection, a lot of trial and error, and a lot of uncomfortable honesty. I began journaling, writing down my feelings in an attempt to understand them better. I started reading books about emotional intelligence and mindfulness, though I struggled to put their lessons into practice. Most importantly, I began to pay attention to the moments when anger rose up—to pause and ask myself what was really going on beneath the surface.

I also started to understand my mother’s role in my emotional development more clearly. Her narcissism had shaped me in ways I hadn’t fully acknowledged before. Recognizing this wasn’t about blaming her; it was about understanding myself. I began to see how her need for control had stunted my ability to process emotions, and how her dismissiveness had taught me to suppress everything except anger. This realization was painful, but it was also liberating. It gave me the clarity I needed to start breaking free from the patterns I’d inherited.

The turning point in my journey didn’t come all at once. It wasn’t a single epiphany or dramatic event, but a series of small moments that added up over time. The first real shift came in my early twenties. By then, I had begun to see the patterns in my behavior. I had pushed away friends, strained family relationships, and burned bridges because of my inability to manage my emotions. I was tired—tired of feeling misunderstood, tired of feeling alone, and tired of the constant churn of anger that left me empty and exhausted.

One of the most transformative lessons I’ve learned in recent years is the importance of pausing. Psychological research often emphasizes the power of emotional regulation—the ability to recognize, label, and manage emotions effectively. By developing the habit of stopping to assess my feelings before reacting, I’ve discovered the profound impact of what psychologists call "emotional granularity," or the ability to differentiate between specific emotions. This skill has helped me avoid unnecessary conflicts and gain clarity.

Pausing doesn’t mean suppressing my feelings. It means acknowledging them, letting them surface, and deciding how to respond. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), one of the most evidence-based approaches in psychology, teaches a similar principle: thoughts, feelings, and behaviors are interconnected. When I feel anger bubbling up, I’ve trained myself to ask, “What’s really going on here? Is this worth reacting to?” Often, the act of stepping back is enough to defuse the intensity of the moment. I’ve realized that my initial emotional response is rarely the one I want to act on. Pausing has become a form of self-respect—an acknowledgment that I have the power to choose my actions.

Mindfulness practices, deeply rooted in both Eastern traditions and modern psychological science, also became a cornerstone of my growth. Studies have shown that mindfulness can reduce the reactivity of the amygdala—the brain's emotional alarm system—and enhance the function of the prefrontal cortex, which governs reasoning and decision-making. Learning to sit with my emotions, to observe them without judgment, was incredibly difficult at first. But over time, it became a way to create space between my feelings and my reactions. Instead of lashing out, I learned to pause, breathe, and choose my response.

Another critical tool was reframing my perspective on anger. I used to see it as a source of strength, a way to protect myself from pain. Now, I see it as a signal—a cue to look deeper and understand what I’m really feeling. Research in emotional intelligence, popularized by psychologist Daniel Goleman, supports the idea that emotions like anger often mask deeper vulnerabilities, such as fear or sadness. Understanding this helped me develop greater empathy for myself and others.

Therapy played a huge role in this process. Having a space to unpack my emotions without judgment was transformative. My therapist helped me see that anger wasn’t my enemy; it was a symptom of something deeper. When I felt anger rising, it was often because I was scared, hurt, or feeling out of control. Naming those underlying emotions gave me a sense of clarity and control that I had never experienced before.

Another important tool was setting boundaries—especially with the ghost of my mother. For years, I had allowed her to dictate the terms of our relationship even from beyond the grave. But as I grew more confident in my ability to manage my emotions, I realized that I needed to take control of my own life. Setting boundaries wasn’t easy, and it led to some difficult conversations. But it was necessary. It allowed me to protect my emotional well-being and focus on my own growth.

Another pivotal element of my growth journey has been my wife. In the past several years, she has been my most consistent support system. She sees me—the real me—in a way no one else ever has. Early in our relationship, she quickly picked up on my tendency to rely on anger as a crutch. But instead of pushing me away or reacting with frustration, she gently (sometimes) challenged me to dig deeper.

I remember one particularly hard conversation early in our marriage. I had finished work, frustrated and short-tempered, and I lashed out over something trivial—a misplaced set of keys perhaps. Instead of snapping back, she calmly sat me down and said, “This isn’t about the keys. What’s really going on?” Her question stopped me in my tracks. No one had ever asked me that before. I didn’t have an answer, but her patience and understanding created a safe space for me to begin exploring it.

Over the years, she’s been my anchor. She’s taught me to be vulnerable in ways I never thought possible. Where I once saw vulnerability as a weakness, she showed me that it’s actually a strength—a way to connect with others and build deeper, more authentic relationships. Her unwavering support has made all the difference, and I can confidently say that I wouldn’t be where I am today without her.

Mindfulness practices also became a cornerstone of my growth. Learning to sit with my emotions, to observe them without judgment, was incredibly difficult at first. But over time, it became a way to create space between my feelings and my reactions. Instead of lashing out, I learned to pause, breathe, and choose my response.

Today, I’m still a work in progress. I still feel anger; it’s a part of who I am. But it no longer defines me. I’ve learned to sit with my emotions, to name them, and to let them pass without acting on impulse. My relationships have deepened as a result, especially with my mother. We’ve had conversations we couldn’t have had years ago, and I’ve come to see her not just as a parent, but as a person with her own struggles and strengths.

My relationship with my wife has grown even stronger through this process. She has been my most important partner in this journey—not just as a supporter, but as someone who challenges me to be better every day. Together, we’ve built a relationship based on honesty, respect, and a willingness to grow.

This journey hasn’t been perfect, and I still have moments where I fall back into old patterns. But I’ve learned that growth isn’t about perfection; it’s about persistence. Every time I choose to respond differently, I’m reminded of how far I’ve come.

Learning to feel has been the hardest and most rewarding journey of my life. It’s taught me that emotions are not something to fear or suppress; they’re a part of what makes us human. By embracing them, I’ve found a deeper connection to myself and to the people around me.

If there’s one thing I hope readers take away from my story, it’s this: you don’t have to be defined by the way you’ve always been. Change is possible, even when it feels impossible. It starts with a question: Why am I feeling this way? And it grows from there.