I didn’t think it would happen so publicly. Certainly not in front of hundreds of people.
In my fantasy, the first time I’d come out about my complex PTSD rage episodes in vivid excruciating detail, I’d be hiding behind a computer screen, or in the comfort of my own home, where I could crawl under the covers after leaking the shameful truth out.
But reality brought an even more sudden and dramatic coming out.
A few weeks ago, I was at my favorite author Cheryl Strayed’s writing retreat in New York. It was called “Wild Awakenings”, a nod to her incredible bestselling memoir-turned-movie “Wild”. In a large hall with hundreds of writers, at the gorgeous Omega Institute property surrounded by changing autumn leaves, we were learning how to write bravely, authentically, and with unshakeable truth.
Throughout the workshop, Cheryl gave us writing prompts. When I saw the prompt: “Write about what you aren’t or weren’t supposed to say”, I knew. I’d finally write about my rage episodes, which I inherited from my mother.
The words came blazing out of my pen into my journal, an intimate place for my thoughts. As expected, I felt a sense of liberation, and profound grief. However, what I didn’t expect was that my most intimate thoughts would be broadcasted on a microphone.
When Cheryl went around the room and picked a handful of people to read out loud, I could barely believe my luck when she chose me. To read in front of my favorite celebrity/author/freakin’ idol was beyond my wildest dreams! A chance of a lifetime!
But as I got up to the mic, my entire body tensed up. I can barely remember how I introduced myself to everyone, but I can remember the force in my words as I read the below piece out loud, fighting back my tears:
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I lunged forward, my hot breath assaulting Jacob’s face as I screamed. “Fuck you! You fucking piece of shit! Motherfucker! I hate this fucking family! I hate you!”
Tears spewed out of the corners of my eyes, like the violence from my mouth.
My husband stood in shock, although this scene was not new to him.
And, just like all the other times before, I stormed off into another room, closing the door as I was supposed to when the rage took over me, me banging on the door with such force I’d bruise my hands.
At least the door contained me. It held me back from hitting anyone else.
I wish that when I was a kid, there was a door between me and my mom. Between her and the wooden sticks she would punish me with. Between the stick and my flesh as she beat me into submission.
I realize, I don’t hate my family. My husband is not a piece of shit. I love Jacob and our son Atlas.
But I fucking hated the way my mother hit me, that made me hate a part of her, and myself.
Especially when she was the person I loved and admired the most.
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After reading, I stepped back from the mic, feeling a mix of shame and liberation.
In response to my sharing, Cheryl lovingly said some poignant words about how important it was to talk about what we weren’t supposed to talk about. How rage is something we’re “supposed” to keep inside, but what we need is more stories of our primal self. And how our past shapes our present.
I wished that in the moment, I could’ve celebrated the epic opportunity to talk openly about healing from generational trauma and cycles of abuse. But I just wanted to hide. As I shrank back into my seat, full of self-doubt, the inner critic in me asked:
How the fuck can I write and publish a book about breaking the cycle of generational trauma, and still have this rage within me?
During my rage episodes, I never hit anyone, but I’ve certainly yelled ugly things when triggered and smashed objects, which I feel deeply embarrassed and guilty about.
I’ve been struggling with complex PTSD from repressed childhood trauma for most of my life. But the rage wasn't really there before until I became a mother. Motherhood unbottled the pain and rage and overwhelm I repressed for decades in order to survive.
I’ve been working on it through therapy, plant medicine, somatic work, and a long list of other healing modalities. But hooooow is it still heeeere?!
Do people think my mom and I are monsters?
I wished that I could’ve explained to the audience how my rage is loaded with grief. How I hated that my mother died of cancer when I was 33 years old, and that it pains me to be a mother without her. How my mother once held guns and grenades during the Cultural Revolution in China, which deeply traumatized her. And how I hold my mother inside me, in my love, grief, and rage.
But as Cheryl sagely shared in the workshop, we should "aspire to credibility, not likability." Not everyone—including ourselves—will like what we reveal, but that level of inner truth is emotionally courageous.
I felt tense for hours after. Like I released a big dark secret from my body, and it still needed a place to go.
Luckily, over the next few hours and days, I was able to let it go. But not alone. With others in community.
With moist eyes, attendees at the retreat came up to me and told me that my story resonated. “Me too,” they’d say. “Thank you for sharing,” they’d say. Strangers told me how powerful my words and voice were. One woman who was a therapist even checked in to ask if I was ok, extending her empathy and support.
I had come alone. I left with newfound friends.
There is so much more I want to share with you. About rage. About healing from complex childhood trauma and generational trauma. About love and self-acceptance and grief and all the things.
I guess that’s why I’m writing a book (coming out in 2025). And why this rage exists in my life so the story can be told—in fury, in faith, and in forgiveness. The details are individual, but the themes are universal.
But for now, I want to tell you that if you’re struggling with difficult emotions or behaviors that you feel ashamed of, even if they’re natural given what you’ve had to survive and overcome—that you’re not alone. We aren’t monsters. We are human.
May telling our personal stories liberate us from shame and connect us.
May we love even the wildest parts of ourselves.
With love,
Jenn
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