Rage Unleashed

Reflections from a Transformative Writing Retreat

It's been four days since my return to the default world, outside of the nurturing container of the writers retreat that I was on last week. I'm still processing and navigating my landing after such a transformative week. The retreat was designed for Changemakers and designed and facilitated by Anna Birney and Louise Armstrong of School for Systems Change.

I wanted to give myself the gift of time and space to tackle some of my limiting beliefs – which I now understand sprang from unawareness of my neurodiversity. Lately I’ve been thinking about Vision Quests, especially after my recent adventures in Brazil and Cornwall. I decided to use the same approach to the retreat. I would fully immerse myself in the experience and focus on being present, rather than setting a particular desired outcome which would lead to me creating self-imposed constraints. Yes, they can sometimes be useful but I also know that I am good at giving myself plausible excuses for why I can’t or shouldn’t do something. 

This gift of time was an opportunity for me to get out of my own way. 

I appreciated the way that Anna and Louise held and facilitated the space, weaving in and out, giving us permission to state and give visible signals of our own boundaries for engagement, (for example, when my big headphones are on please don’t disturb me). We easily moved between the student and teacher roles' when we felt called to do so. There was space to be vulnerable, curious and brave. I won’t say much more about the magic of the retreat and its location, Selgars Mill in Devon, now. Instead I want to focus on the moments of presence that I experienced, and share some reflections on what emerged. 

In one of our 'check-in' sessions, a common sense of vulnerability and tenderness hung in the air. This particular emotional state followed several days of grounding and the exploration of new practices, tools, and resources. I felt quite  teary-eyed, so I decided to go to my room for  solitude and tranquillity. I wanted to give myself the time and space to surface some of the emotions bubbling up  and so decided to use breathwork meditation to help me access them. I was recently introduced to the app Othership which guides you through various breathwork sessions.

I got high on my own supply!

I then opened up the Endel app (which I use to help my neurospicy brain focus), sat on my bed and let the emotions and the words emerge on the page. 

Writing is not just about typing out fully formed sentences but also about embracing the beauty that emerges when we let our thoughts flow freely. 

Through this moment of pure presence, I realised that I had been carrying the weight of shame and guilt from my early adult years. These emotions had been manifesting as somatic anxiety, the reinforcement of limiting beliefs and a constant need to maintain control and appear ‘sorted’. It was a form of self-harm, one that many might not recognise, and one that I had subconsciously been holding onto since the age of 17 (I’ll be 52 in a few weeks). I also realised that I had been stifling my own rage, a very particular rage anchored in quite specific circumstances.

Being a Black woman, especially in my homeland of England, adds complexity to the expression of this rage. I belong to several marginalised minority communities, and we often find ourselves navigating a world that tends to stereotype and dehumanise us. We're expected to be the “strong Black woman” who is also fiercely independent. I’ve lost count of the number of times that I’ve been called a version of these tropes, or a “warrior”. We forget that “fierce independence is a trauma response”. We are often expected to revisit our traumas, allowing others to learn, grow, and sometimes profit from the "insights" gained from our lived experiences. However, spaces for us to be vulnerable or tender are seldom provided, and when they do exist, they are typically established and maintained by those who share our background or lived experiences. We are painfully aware of “needing” to do or say the “right thing” so that we don’t bring unnecessary attention to ourselves, and if we do, then we have to expect to be re-traumatised!

It suddenly struck me that I've been suppressing my own rage. Increasingly, there exist  spaces for the angry woman, but not when she's a Woman of the Global Majority. But in the words of Abolitionist Sojourner Truth, "Ain't I a woman?" The concept of rage as a Black woman is intriguing. When we assert ourselves, we're labelled as "aggressive". There is a systemic gaslighting of Black Women: be strong, but not too strong. Share your story, but don't make me uncomfortable or feel guilty about it.

It's a lot.

The writing retreat was an eye-opener. It made me realise that I had been keeping my rage bottled up. I could feel the tension in my stomach and the constant hunch in my shoulders. This was because I often experienced microaggressions and microinvalidations, especially from those who profess to know, love and respect me. What makes it even more frustrating is that whenever I tried to explain these experiences to someone with a more privileged standing because of their ethnicity, they would demand proof, which felt like they were invalidating what I was going through. This suppression of my rage took on various forms including meticulously considering every action and word to avoid being misunderstood or unfairly labelled. It was my (our) way of defending against stereotypes and dehumanisation. In these environments, the pressure to excel, adapt, and conform to a specific cultural mould intensifies. We are held to stricter standards, and that inadvertently builds pressure cookers. 

Now, reflecting on my past experiences, I understand why I've faced exhaustion and endured four burnouts. I was trying to fit into an unrealistic and idealised image of who society expected me to be as a Black woman, whilst exploring the depth and breadth of my fluid identity. I was on the end of a bungee rope of existentialism, most of which wasn’t even mine! 

I'm exhausted, drained, and nearly forgot that it's perfectly fine to unleash my rage, passion, fury, and curiosity. I don't have the “spoons” for those moments anymore. I don’t want to only feel psychologically safe to dance wildly alone at home, mindful that I'll be fetishised or stereotyped as an overly sexualised Black woman. The amount of times that I have been told that I’m twerking is, in itself, tiring.

True self-expression is an absolute joy to be in the presence of. I'm often more at ease when people freely express themselves. However, avoid telling me about the time you visited a country in the Global South and briefly experienced being in a minority, as if that gives you an understanding of what it's truly like, you are centering my experience on you because it made you feel uncomfortable. You may want to empathise but that is not the way to do it. Listen, be still, and sometimes say nothing just hold the space for me (us) to feel into whatever we are feeling.

This retreat has given me the space to give myself the permission to simply be. It's a bold statement of defiance against the imposition that I should conform to someone else's expectations. I refuse to accept insecurity and anxiety as 'gifts from anyone.

Some of you reading this may wonder, why did I listen? Why did I let those things seep in? To truly understand, you must fully comprehend the complexities of being a member of multiple (or even just one) marginalised communities that have been dehumanised. All we – all I – want is to be recognised and respected as a human being, one who is brimming with rage. And that's not a negative thing.

Rage is passion, curiosity, heightened states of awareness. It's sensual, sexual, primal. It's the capacity to recognise and honour the animism in all things, to feel the wind on your eyelashes, to share breath in a kiss, to trace your own skin and play with the hairs on your arm. Rage is the surge of blood to your face, coursing through your veins.

It is creative energy. 

Rage is a mix of order and chaos, both crucial for a fulfilling life.

I'm truly grateful for the environment that our facilitators and fellow participants nurtured, allowing all of us to truly be there for ourselves and for each other. This writing retreat provided the room I needed to grant myself the freedom to express my inner passion through writing. I’m not in a rush. I am going to take my time to nurture it

Language is indeed a sensual dance of words and punctuation on the page. It is also the companion of our deepest emotions, including rage.

And finally, I fully understand the words of Black feminist writer Audre Lorde when she wrote, "Your silence will not protect you."