The Inheritance of Rage

Photo by Anton Luzhkovsky on Unsplash Rage isn’t something I learned. It was something I absorbed quietly, over time.

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It was like humidity in a locked room, like tension held in the jaw. I had to grow up watching injustice slammed upon people I loved. Even before I had the words for it, rage settled into my bones. In my family, we didn’t talk about anger. We didn’t raise our voices. We just raised our thresholds for suffering.

My mother has a Taurus Moon — grounded, dependable. She always loved with her hands: through food, routines, and keeping our home intact. She created stability, and in that stability, emotions were kept neat, predictable, and contained. They called her elegant. But underneath her calm was something else: Grief. She held a quiet belief that she failed the people she loved. She carried guilt like a second skin — blaming herself for what couldn’t be saved, what fell apart, what hurt us all. When life fractured, she didn’t rage. She held the broken pieces of everyone else, looked at her own hands, and blamed herself.

Then came I, the daughter born with a Capricorn Moon. So I did what a Capricorn Moon child would do best: I tried to hold the world together for my loved ones. I worked towards becoming the fixer. The quiet achiever. The one who tried to carry calm into chaos. If I couldn’t stop the pain, maybe I could organise it. Maybe structure could succeed where softness had failed. Maybe control could be safety. What I did not realise at the time is this: Emotion doesn’t disappear just because it goes unspoken. It doesn’t vanish when you intellectualise it. It waits. It simmers. It grows roots. It hides in the stomach, and it learns to speak in symptoms. And for me, it often spoke as protection. Because nothing fuels my rage more than watching someone try to hurt the people I love. When harm comes close to my family, I don’t freeze — I ignite.

Then came the dream. I won’t share all its details — some things are meant to stay sacred. But in that dream, something ancient and beyond logic resurfaced. I saw myself clearly, not as rebellion, not even as healing. But as echo. As expression. I was the parts my mother suppressed. The fire she swallowed and the voice she never used. My structure was her longing for order. My rage was the scream she never released. My discipline, my drive, my ache to fix everything… I am my mother’s inner world personified. I didn’t just want to make things better. I wanted to rewrite her past. At that moment, I understood: Feminine rage isn’t always taught. Sometimes it’s inherited. Sometimes we are born with a storm in our chest, because someone before us wasn’t allowed to feel the rain. We are taught to fear and avoid anger, to see it as dangerous or shameful, especially if we were raised to be good daughters and calm women. But that day I learned that my rage wasn’t something to control — it was something to listen to, to sit with, and especially to honour. My rage wasn’t a problem to solve. It was a message I had long ignored.

Now, as a mother myself, I hold both tenderness and truth. My mother did the best she could with what she was allowed to feel and I honour that. But I want more for my daughter. I want her to know that feeling deeply is not something to survive. It is something to embrace. Her emotions are not threats. They are teachers. This is the new lineage I am shaping: Where daughters can cry without apologising. Where love is expressed, not just implied. Where control is not confused with care. Where rage becomes a fire that warms, not one that consumes. Feminine rage doesn’t always arrive loud. Sometimes it is passed down quietly through what was never said. This piece is not just about anger. It’s about recognition. About the moment you realise what you’ve been carrying may not have started with you — and the power of choosing what continues through you. If you, too, carry the emotional echoes of generations past, know this: Your healing does not dishonour them. It completes what they could not finish. It frees you, and maybe, in time, it frees them too.