Confronting Anger in a Controlled Environment
The man's voice cut through my anxious thoughts as he gestured toward the wire rack above me. "Choose your weapon," he said, indicating an array of sledgehammers, wrenches, and crowbars. My hands burned inside protective gloves slick with sweat as I stood beside my husband in the preparation room, waiting for our turn. Adrenaline surged through me like an electrical current, causing my legs to tremble and a tight lump to form in my throat. What began as a fun night out celebrating my husband's 50th birthday was about to become something far more profound.
The Growing Need for Anger Release
According to recent Pew Research Center data, nearly half of Americans report experiencing significant frustration, while one-third express anger toward the federal government. From escalating healthcare and housing costs to critical research funding cuts and the gradual erosion of women's and LGBTQ+ rights, many Americans are reaching their breaking point. For me, anger had always been difficult to express without accompanying feelings of shame and guilt.
Author Jennette McCurdy, in an interview discussing her novel "Half Her Age," highlighted how female rage is often muted in our society. "As women," she explained, "we're told to accommodate the people around us, to be polite, and to be kind at the expense of our own well-being." This cultural conditioning had shaped my own relationship with anger for decades.
Preparing for the Unfamiliar
Earlier that evening, as I stood in the preparation room, the prospect of expressing anger through physical destruction felt both thrilling and unnerving. We selected protective uniforms from a rack—I chose a full-length mesh onesie and stepped into tall black rubber boots. My stomach clenched as I waited for further instructions, forcing myself to exhale in an attempt to calm my nerves. What was I so afraid of? Looking foolish? Or perhaps losing control completely?
From the top rack, I selected my weapons—a long metal hammer and a large square mallet—pretending to be unfazed by their weight. The dense tools pulled my arms downward, sending my heart racing with anticipation. A self-deprecating laugh escaped me as I tried to ease the tension. After pulling my helmet over my head and adjusting the ear protection, I glanced toward my husband, seeking reassurance. His smile and the gentle push of the visor over my face signaled we were ready.
Entering the Arena of Release
The man led us down a narrow hallway lined with protective sheets, stopping before an open door. He pointed to a small black box on the wall. "Pick a playlist." The choice was immediately obvious. "Rage Against the Machine," I declared. "Hell yes," my husband agreed enthusiastically.
One final warning: "No hitting the walls or each other." My breath caught as an intrusive thought flashed through my mind—me hitting the wall with a hammer while screaming. I shook my head, dismissing the image. "Of course not," I assured him.
As we stepped into the 100-square-foot room, glass crunched beneath my feet. The walls were covered with long wooden panels featuring handwritten comments. One message, scribbled in red ink on the opposite side, stood out as if meant specifically for me: "Do it angry. Do it mad."
The Physical Unburdening
The door closed behind us, leaving us alone. From above, the deep throbbing buzz of an electric guitar filtered through speakers, growing louder until the floor vibrated. Uncertain where to begin, I started jumping up and down, trying to loosen my limbs.
Moving to a corner, I held my hammer over broken dishes. Initially awkward, I gently tapped and cracked each item as if testing the waters. The lack of rules and structure felt uncomfortable. I picked up ceramic plates, tossing them against the wall—followed by clanks, smashes, and the surprising sound of my own cackling laughter. Letting go of concerns about how I sounded and looked proved liberating.
Closing my eyes momentarily, I remembered my high school days when I was more carefree and allowed my body to lead. Like a slow-burning fuse threatening to ignite, a sudden urge rushed through me to break and shatter everything in sight. I swung the hammer up and down, hitting tires, plates, and glasses with increasing force, each impact louder than the last. For that moment, I stopped trying to maintain control and finally let go.
The Psychological Breakthrough
According to Mental Health America, acts of "throwing or breaking something safely" and "screaming" can be healthy ways to release rage and tension. In that moment, my body seemed to know what I needed before my conscious mind did. Decades of anger and resentment flooded my limbs—from being forced to care for my mother at an early age after her sudden accident, to struggling with infertility as an adult, to enduring months of horrifying news updates. All these experiences shape-shifted into raw energy.
I reached for a crowbar, swinging it like a baseball bat against a metal shard on the floor. As metal pounded against metal, I lost track of my surroundings. My husband shouted from behind me, "Yeah! That's it!" His palpable pride provided the encouragement I needed.
The music continued, making my ears ring, yet I wanted to keep going. I hit the tire as hard as possible, blood rushing to my arms and chest. Anger manifested in swooping movements that ended with breaking glass and clanging metal. I pictured myself as the adolescent I never got to be and the adult still healing from it all.
Reclaiming Personal Agency
For years, I'd been told to keep things to myself, avoid being overly emotional, and that my feelings were "too much." Though therapy had helped me set better boundaries, I'd defaulted to people-pleasing and peacekeeping. But now something unexpected happened: I said no.
To the beat of the music, I screamed and hit the tire again with a long wrench, singing along to the chorus: "FUCK NO I won't do what you tell me! Fuck no, I won't do what you tell me!"
No, I won't hold it in anymore. No, I won't hide how I'm feeling. No, I won't put myself last. No, I won't be quiet. No, I'm not too much. No, I won't let you take away my agency. I won't let you take it away. Fuck no.
The Aftermath and Newfound Freedom
As the song ended, I looked down at the glass scattered in sharp fragments at my feet, accomplishment washing over me. I did that. Though my head pounded, I noticed a new sensation spreading across my body—physical relief. Afterward, my husband and I walked to dinner feeling lighter and happier. Strangely, I was famished. We laughed at the absurdity of smashing objects in a tiny room. "You were on fire in there," he said, smiling with his eyes.
Sitting side by side at high-top tables, with one of his hands resting across my leg, I leaned my head on his shoulder and watched people around us sipping martinis as we waited for our food. For the first time in months, perhaps years, my body was completely at ease.
Lasting Lessons in Anger Management
I had believed I'd dealt with my anger before that night, but I was mistaken. Initially self-conscious about throwing and hitting things, worried about hurting myself or accidentally injuring my husband, I discovered that with each swing, I forced energy out—like bursting a helium balloon between my hands, the air rushing above me.
McCurdy suggests women should try "channeling anger in a healthy way" to "help you find closure" that may not be available elsewhere. Unlike therapy, where I'd talk or yell to slow racing thoughts, the rage room provided physical release. This time, I did what I needed—allowing myself to scream, hit, resist, and rebel. It finally lifted the weight that had pressed against my chest for decades.
Now, when anger rises again, I won't hesitate. I'll roll down car windows, walk in the woods, or turn up kitchen music to release a primal scream. Letting rage surface in whatever form it takes is what truly matters—without fear of failure, self-doubt, judgment, or self-silencing.
Whether it happens alone in a room or alongside others at a peaceful protest, this is how we begin to reclaim our power.
