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My Walk with Anger
The Old Me
You might not believe this, but, I was known for my temper—the smallest things used to set me off. Once, while enjoying a beach day with a friend, words were exchanged, and the tension between us escalated. Back then, I didn’t understand the power of emotions or how to calm myself down so I could respond instead of react. And my reactions? They were explosive.
As we left the beach, the argument continued in the car. I felt trapped and furious. We were both yelling, and I lost control. In a moment of pure emotional chaos, I unbuckled my seatbelt and opened the car door, fully intending to jump out of the moving vehicle.
Looking back, I see that this reckless decision was my desperate attempt to remove myself from the situation. I didn’t have the skills or the understanding of anger—I only knew that when I was upset, my emotions took over, and I said and did things I never truly meant. I was reacting, not thinking.
This wasn’t an isolated incident. When anger consumed me, I threw things, kicked things, and said horrible words that couldn’t be taken back. It wasn’t until I started learning about emotions that I began peeling back the layers of my anger.
For the longest time, when the rage monster appeared, I didn’t even recognize the warning signs. I wasn’t aware of what made me angry or how my body reacted until the fight was already over. I didn’t notice my blood pressure rising or my muscles tensing—anger was so ingrained in me that I assumed those sensations were just part of who I was.
The Change
That changed when I started working with my therapist. I learned to recognize the subtle signs: my heart beating faster, my muscles tightening, that slow burn of frustration bubbling inside me. I was taught tools—how to walk away, how to remove myself from the situation, how to disengage before things spiraled out of control. Deep breaths, brisk walks, choosing not to see the other person as an enemy.
I’ll never forget the first time I put these tools into action. In the middle of a heated argument, I paused and said, “I’m feeling elevated. Let’s take a walk and continue this conversation after.”
The person I was speaking to didn’t take it well. They told me I was avoiding the conversation, abandoning their needs, and that taking a walk was a stupid idea. But in reality, they were angry because they couldn’t control my emotions or my actions like they had expected.
So I stood up, listened to my body, and took the walk alone.
When I returned, I felt calmer—ready to continue the hard conversation. But the other person escalated again, raising their voice and growing angrier. That’s when I realized: taking a break worked. I was in control of my emotions, and they weren’t.
That moment was a turning point. The more I practiced, the more I noticed anger’s presence before it took over. I wasn’t perfect, but over time, the emotional explosions faded. I built healthier patterns.
The New Me
And then came the day I knew—without a doubt—that I had control over my anger. A loved one, struggling with deep insecurities, projected their pain onto me. In the past, I would have snapped, lashed out, or fed into the fight. But this time, something shifted. I felt the anger rise… and then it subsided before I even responded.
I saw the situation for what it was—their pain, not mine. I remained calm, stood up for myself multiple times, and ultimately set a boundary: I needed space to process. That was the breaking point for them. They ended the relationship because they weren’t willing to respect my need for space.
Losing that relationship hurt. The grief was real. But at the same time, I was so damn proud of myself. I hadn’t gotten defensive. I hadn’t engaged in their anger. I had given them my time, my patience, and multiple chances to work through it. Asking for space wasn’t unreasonable—anyone in my life today would understand and respect that.
I handled it with clarity, self-respect, and emotional control.
That friendship ended, but I walked away knowing my worth. Knowing that all the internal work I had done was real. That I managed my anger like a pro.
And that? That was a victory.
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One Thing At A Time
Photo by Shannon The winter storm stirs up wonders. Through snow and wind, bending and blowing, the very things that should be buried beneath layers of ice and frozen to the earth resurface. A perfect white canvas, now speckled with autumn’s remnants.
Sometimes, healing feels like this. A storm blows through, uncovering things we thought we had buried. Triggers, past traumas—showing up at the most inopportune times. But instead of fighting it, I take notice. I don’t chastise the leaf for landing on fresh snow. I don’t demand that it disappear. Instead, I wonder—how did the wind carry it here? I notice the edges, the color-worn but not damaged.
We can make matters worse by denying what surfaces. We can freeze our hands trying to dig through the snow, desperate to put things back where they belong. Or we can simply notice. Be curious. Trust that, just like the leaf, these things will find their way—no matter how much they contrast against the untouched snow.
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Box Office Gratitude
I’m going to be a bit vulnerable today. When it comes to TV shows and movies, I tend to stick with old favorites. Even my kids can predict the general order of what I’ll choose to watch—Gilmore Girls, How I Met Your Mother, Friends, New Girl, and documentaries on Earth, wildlife, Egypt, and space. It’s a familiar cycle.
I re-watch these shows because I know exactly what’s coming. There are no unexpected triggers, no emotional landmines. This is also why I absolutely detest going to the movie theater. My movie choices follow the same pattern—I cycle through The Mummy (1-3), Harry Potter (1-7), and Jurassic Park (all of them).
I avoid movies that make me cry. The Croods, almost anything Disney, and Inside Out—I can’t do it. Don’t get me wrong, they’re beautifully made, but they hit too close to home. The emotions they stir up aren’t just about sadness; they bring up grief, loss, and truths that are hard to face.
Recently, I made the mistake of going to see Inside Out 2 with my family. I had told them I didn’t want to go. I even suggested my husband take them instead. But they were sweet, encouraging me to come along. And so, I did.
I bawled.
Not just a few tears—I sobbed. The movie hit me hard, forcing me to confront emotions I wasn’t ready for. By the time the credits rolled and the lights came on, my kids turned to me and said, “Yup, you were right. You cried.”
My kids are at the age where they ask hard questions. They’re curious, thoughtful, and I’ve done a good job raising them to be unafraid of emotions. They wanted to understand—What part made you cry?
It was difficult to explain. I shared a little about my past, just enough to help them make sense of my reaction. But their questions lingered throughout the week, popping up at random moments. I wanted to meet their curiosity with honesty, but I also wanted to protect them.
And then, a realization hit me.
Their inability to fully understand my grief is a good thing. They’ve never had to hide under a parked car to protect themselves from someone chasing them. They don’t have to fear that when their dad and I get upset, we’ll break their bedroom door in half.
They don’t carry that kind of fear because they are safe. They are loved.
And that fills me with pride.
At the same time, grief sneaks in—because I didn’t get that same childhood. I didn’t grow up in a home where emotions were handled with care. But instead of letting that consume me, I remind myself: I am breaking cycles. I am giving them what I never had.
And for that, I am grateful.
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Violet Veil
Photo by Shannon Art has always been my sanctuary, my solace, and my voice when words fail to capture the complexity of my emotions.
“Violet Veil” emerged from a moment of profound reflection. The interplay of vibrant purples and reds in this image reflects the layers of emotion I was experiencing: the deep shadows of pain interwoven with the soft light of hope. The flowers, delicate yet resilient, seem to push through the veil, symbolizing growth and transformation even in the midst of struggle.
Through this piece, I was reminded that beauty can exist alongside sorrow, and that healing often involves embracing the contrasts—the vivid and the muted, the joy and the ache. Violet Veil invites the viewer to look closer, to pause and notice the intricate details that often go unseen, much like the small but significant moments of healing in our own journeys. Art allows us to find clarity where there was once only chaos, and Violet Veil serves as a testament to the power of seeing through the layers—both in the image and within ourselves.
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Love/Hate Relationship with Emotions
I continue to have a love/hate relationship with emotions. Logically, I know that emotions help us figure out our needs, and I love that. It’s something I am continually learning, as each emotion and situation has its own nuances. Emotions are complex, and I often find myself lost in them. But I’m grateful that I can take a curious approach to them. Over time, I’ve learned not to fight my emotions but to sit with them and ask: What does this mean? How can I support myself?
The frustrating part—the part I still struggle to flow with—is when a random emotion hits out of nowhere.
I wake up in a good mood, feeling rested, going about my day, and then BAM! Like a rogue wave crashing over me, an emotion floods in suddenly and intensely. I’m not always graceful or accepting in moments like this. I get frustrated and overwhelmed. But living with PTSD means this will be a continual battle, and the best way I know to thrive through emotional or physical flashbacks is to give my emotions space.
The hardest part for me is not knowing what triggered the rogue wave of emotions. I’ve spent hours—even days—trying to figure it out, digging for the root cause. But my best success comes when I acknowledge and validate the emotion rather than interrogate it. Instead of chasing the “why,” I focus on supporting myself through it.
Sometimes, that support looks like allowing myself to cry. Other times, it’s reaching out to a trusted person who won’t make the emotion worse. It’s giving myself space and time to take care of myself.
Sometimes, this interferes with my plans—because the emotions feel too big to function. Other times, I can box them up and carry on, dealing with the gnawing annoyance of them in the back of my mind.
But no matter what, I will carry on.
I will take the time to address things as they arise and remind myself that taking care of me is not just important—it’s necessary.
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Through The Lens: Ice & Emotions
Photo by Shannon Through the Lens: Ice and Emotions
The ice on Lake Superior can do some pretty impressive things. Waves push shards onto the shore, shifting and moving them miles down the coast in a matter of days—or even hours. The ice on Lake Superior is both unstable and magnificent at the same time.
With camera in hand and ice cleats attached, I take a calculated risk to capture the shards that fascinate me. The details, the shapes, the color—I am drawn in, mesmerized by their raw beauty. As I stand there, I reflect on the way emotions are similar to these ice shards…
Emotions can feel sharp. They can feel cold, catching you off guard. They shift, they spike, they fall, they freeze—emotions are notorious for being unpredictable.
We can put all our energy into controlling or suppressing them, trying to force them into a box. Or we can choose to observe them as they shift.
As emotions rise and fall, I remind myself that managing them is a lot like observing the ice on Superior. I am both fearful of the fragile space they claim and in awe of their beauty and arrangement.
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Gratitude Through Vulnerability
Relearning Emotions
During my recovery and fight against mental illness, I had to break down my version and definition of what emotions were. They were labeled poorly—shaped by unhealthy core beliefs and the lessons imprinted on me as a young child. My understanding of emotions, molded by these flawed beliefs, was fundamentally broken. The beliefs I carried about emotions weren’t truly my own; they were absorbed from the people and environments around me.
Life Before
As a child, when I cried, I was told to stop or risk being given something to cry about. When I was angry, I heard, “It’s not that big of a deal,” or, “You’re being unreasonable.” Over time, I internalized these messages: certain emotions were unacceptable. Feeling sadness, anger, or frustration meant I was wrong, unreasonable, or dramatic. These beliefs became roadblocks that made it nearly impossible to express or process my emotions in healthy ways.
Reconstructing my understanding of emotions during recovery was humbling and uncomfortable. At times, I felt like a toddler learning to walk—clumsy, unsure, and frustrated by my lack of control. I had to learn to pause, look inward, and identify what I was feeling. I had to give myself permission to feel emotions I had long been told were unacceptable.
Life Now
But even now, the process isn’t easy. Sharing my feelings with others often makes me feel vulnerable, like I’m navigating unsteady terrain. It’s especially difficult when someone responds harshly or tells me I’m being dramatic. In those moments, I remind myself of an important truth: their reaction is often a reflection of their own struggles with emotional awareness, not mine.
I’ve learned to take a step back and ask myself a simple but profound question: Is this mine to carry? More often than not, the answer is no. Their judgment is a sign of their discomfort with emotions, not a reflection of my worth. I’ve learned to approach these moments with gratitude—for the clarity to discern what’s mine and the strength to let go of what isn’t.
Powerful Realization
Through this process, I came to a powerful realization: there are no good or bad emotions. They’re all part of the human experience, each one offering us valuable insight if we’re willing to listen. Ironically, the emotions most people consider “easy,” like joy and happiness, were—and still are—the hardest for me to embrace.
I had spent so much of my life feeling anger, frustration, neglect, and abandonment that those emotions felt familiar—even comfortable in a strange way. But joy? Love? Happiness? Those were foreign to me. I didn’t know what they felt like, and I didn’t know how to let myself fully experience them.
Relearning my emotions has been one of the hardest and most rewarding parts of my recovery. It’s taught me to sit with discomfort, embrace vulnerability, and, most importantly, find gratitude—not just for the easy moments, but for the strength to keep going when joy feels out of reach.
Gratitude became my anchor. It allowed me to shift my focus from what I couldn’t control to the small, meaningful moments of growth and healing I could celebrate. With time, I began to see my emotions not as burdens but as guides—tools that help me navigate life and connect more deeply with myself and others. I welcomed the vulnerability needed to address and share my emotions.
Have you ever found certain emotions harder to embrace? What beliefs about emotions are you carrying, and are they serving you?
Remember: there are no “wrong” emotions. They are all valid, and they all matter. The courage to feel them, even when it’s hard, is something to be proud of.