Reader,

You called it anger. But beneath that fire… there’s grief you haven’t named yet.

I sat with my anger long enough
…until she told me her name was grief.

For a long time, I didn’t know the difference.
I thought I was angry at the system. At the expectations. At the walls I couldn’t seem to climb or break.

But the deeper I went, the more I realized — I wasn’t just angry.
I was grieving.

Grieving the time I gave away in places that didn’t see me.
Grieving the years I spent shaping myself to fit into spaces that were never meant to hold me.
Grieving the parts of me I silenced to be “professional,” “respectable,” “valuable.”

It’s a strange thing — to carry anger and grief at the same time.
But it’s also human.

And maybe you’ve felt it too.

That heavy ache in your chest.
The one that flares up on Sunday nights and settles back in during Monday meetings.
The one that whispers, “You can’t do this anymore,”
...but also says, “You’re not allowed to leave.”

I remember that feeling well.
It’s not weakness.
It’s a warning.

You don’t have to explode to make a change.
You don’t have to wait until you’re completely depleted.

You just have to tell the truth:
​This isn’t living. It’s surviving.​
And it’s eating at you more than you want to admit.

The work to untangle that is real.
It’s not fast. It’s not easy.
But it’s the only way out of the loop.

I don’t know if today is your day.
Maybe it’s next week. Maybe next year.
But I do know this:

No one else can decide it for you.
Not your partner.
Not your kids.
Not your boss.
Not your mom.

Just you.

And when you're ready… I’ll be right here.