We often treat anger like it’s a moment.
A sudden boom. A blow-up. A reaction we couldn’t control.
But if you zoom out, anger is rarely just a moment. It’s a cycle—and one that can be deeply familiar, even predictable, once we start paying attention.
It starts with a threshold—a stimulus that rubs us wrong.
We find what many of us call “patience,” but let’s be honest—most of the time, it’s toleration. We’re holding. Gritting. Swallowing. Just trying to stay calm.
And we even applaud ourselves for it:
"I was so patient with her."
"I held my tongue."
"I let it go."
Until we don’t.
Pressure builds. Tension tightens.
And then, something cracks.
Boom.
The fireworks hit.
I remember this vividly during my separation and divorce. I was in a constant state of fear and panic, which meant I was living right next to my breaking point most of the time. It didn’t take much to push me over. And when I went over, I lost it. There were endless moments where I lashed out, blamed, tried to control my ex, hoping if I could just make her stop doing the things that set me off, I’d be okay.
But it never worked. Because the real work wasn’t in controlling her—it was in noticing what was going on inside me.
When I started owning my experience—when I stopped pointing the finger and started looking inward—I began to see the entire cycle. I could feel when I was approaching my threshold. I could name my breaking point. I began to understand where I lost control.
And no, this doesn’t mean I never lose my temper. I’m human. Traffic still tests the limits of my spiritual maturity. If you could hear the vocabulary I invent for other drivers, you’d know what I mean.
But I’m no longer owned by it. Because I take ownership of it.
One of the biggest shifts in my journey came when I started tuning into my body.
For me, the signs are clear:
That’s the whisper. That’s anger in its earliest form. Not the blow-up. Not the rage.
The initial signal.
The more I practiced listening to that signal, the more choices I had. Not to repress it—but to work with it.
And when I do blow up—because sometimes I still do—there’s another part of the cycle that deserves attention: the aftermath.
At first, the voice of justification arrives:
"She shouldn’t have said that."
"He disrespected me."
"I had every right to react."
That voice is all about them.
But what it’s really doing is shielding me from shame.
Because when shame arrives, it cuts deeper:
"You screwed it up again."
"You’re a terrible father."
"You’re not who you said you were."
It’s brutal. But beneath that noise is the truth of shame—a truth that actually wants something good:
I didn’t live up to my own standard.
I want better for myself.
I am a good man—and that’s why this hurts.
When we let ourselves feel that truth, without collapse or justification, shame becomes a teacher—not a jailor.
Here’s what I wish every man knew about anger: It’s not wrong to have it. It’s not shameful to feel it.
It’s a whisper that deserves your attention, not your suppression.
We’ve been taught to worship patience and toleration like they’re virtues.
But sometimes, toleration is just the first stop on the way to a blow-up.
What if we replaced toleration with truth?
What if we said our No earlier?
What if we started honoring anger at the threshold, not after the fireworks?
Imagine saying:
"Something’s off. I feel my jaw tightening."
"My chest is hot—I think I’m getting angry."
"I need to pause here before this turns into something else."
That’s not weakness. That’s wisdom.
That’s how we transform the anger cycle—not by trying to stay calm longer, but by listening sooner, acting earlier, and owning the full spectrum of what lives inside us.
Not perfection, just presence.
Anger doesn’t make you a bad man.
Dis-owning anger does.
The work isn’t about never getting triggered. It’s about knowing yourself well enough to notice when the heat is rising—and choosing to respond in a way that honors who you really are.
Own it. Feel it. Learn from it.
And if you ever find yourself past the point of no return, in the aftermath of another blow-up?
Let shame be your compass—not your cage.
Let that pain remind you: you want more for yourself.
And that’s a damn good thing.
I’m here. I’ll spot you.