Confessions of a Retired Angry Girl

I used to be an expressive girl. I spoke my mind without hesitation, fought for what I believed was right, and never cared if my words cut too deep. For me, it was enough to be heard, to make my point clear even if it meant hurting people along the way.

But here’s the twist: behind that bold, tough-looking girl was a certified cry-baby. Yeah. I was, in truth, a cry-baby. Almost everything that upset me brought me to tears. My Mama used to say that people avoided making jokes around me because I was too grumpy and easily offended. And yes, when I felt wronged, I held onto that grudge, sometimes for far too long.

Then came fifth grade. The year I officially got my "bullying survivor" badge. I can still recall the names, the faces, the whispers. One of my classmates, She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named spread rumors that made me look awful. But here's the more plotted twist: while they were busy laughing, I was busy topping the class. Revenge is sweet, but success? EVEN SWEETER. 

Fast forward to college. I found my partner-in-crime, Joanna. We were the perfect definition of Yin and Yang. She was quiet and chill; I was… well, not quiet and definitely not chill. Whenever we landed in trouble, I was the one doing all the talking, explaining, and more often than not, arguing. I had no patience for injustice and couldn’t stand people who silenced themselves in the face of unfairness. It fueled my anger. I wanted to be their voice, their defender, their hero.

Looking back, I realize I was consumed with anger. I hated the world, hated weakness, hated silence. And yet, there are days when I miss that girl. The one who was unafraid to speak, unafraid of consequences, unafraid to be disliked.

Now, I am no longer that angry girl. I find it harder to raise my voice, even at myself. I swallow words I wish I could say. I tell myself it’s better to sacrifice than to create conflict. But deep inside, I know the silence hurts just as much as the anger once did.

Still, my journey is no longer about rage—it’s about grace. As I draw closer to God, I find myself learning to release the burdens I once carried: the anger, the rage, the loneliness, the despair. They no longer define me. I just want love. 

Now, my heart longs to ask: How far can love go?

Because at the end of it all, it is not anger that saves us. It is love.

And that’s the love I want not the shallow kind, not the conditional kind, but a love that runs deep and wide. Love for God, who never gave up on me. Love for myself, so I can finally forgive the girl I used to be. Love for my family and friends, who stood by me through every season. And yes, even love for those who hurt me so badly, because carrying bitterness only chains me to the past.

This is the kind of love I choose now. The kind that heals, restores, and sets me free.

And I am so proud of who I am now.