What the Bones Remember

Anger never announces itself clearly.

It doesn’t stomp in with fists raised or a red-hot glare, not anymore. That was in the beginning—when we were young, when the world felt raw and the injustices too many to count. Back then, anger made noise. It cried and threw things. It begged to be seen.

But when no one came—when justice never arrived, when comfort stayed out of reach—anger changed form. It got smarter. It slid into the bloodstream like a slow venom. It learned to wear our voice. To mimic our thoughts. It began to whisper, not shout. And when we started speaking with that whisper, we mistook it for wisdom. For righteousness. For a fierce sense of what is fair and unfair.

But that voice is not our highest self.

That voice is the residue of every time we swallowed our hurt. Every time we were betrayed and never allowed ourselves to break. Every time we prayed for change and then clenched our jaw at the first sign of disruption.

That voice is pain, pretending to be power.

We call it “just the way I am now.”

We say, “I’ve grown stronger,” but the truth is we’ve just grown harder.

And underneath that hardness, a different kind of decay begins.

It starts in the joints—the knees that ache, the hips that throb in the night.

It lives in the chest, in shallow breath, and the sudden pressure behind the ribs when someone says the wrong thing. It moves into the gut, the stomach that turns sour, the liver that swells with silent rage.

And slowly, without ever calling itself anger, it becomes illness.

Yes—this is the part no one tells you.

Anger, when unfelt, becomes the architect of disease.

It coats the nerves with irritation. It creates heat where there should be balance, contraction where there should be flow. It builds tension in the tissues, confusion in the cells, and eventually it carves out space for pain to live permanently.

But more dangerous still—

It turns on the spirit.

It starts to whisper not just about people, but about life itself.

“This isn’t fair.”

“This isn’t how it was supposed to be.”

“If there is a God, how could this have happened to me?”

And that’s when anger has done its deepest work.

It has convinced you not just to fight others, but to fight your own path.

To mistrust the unfolding.

To see everything—every ending, every loss, every unanswered prayer—as betrayal instead of redirection.

But hear me now.

That is not you.

You were not born bitter. You were not created for vengeance. The soul inside you does not need enemies to feel whole. That soul came here to grow, not to war.

The lie of anger is that it is strength.

But true strength is in surrender.

In trust.

In the astonishing bravery it takes to live with an undefended heart.

There is a truth beneath the anger.

And it’s not hatred.

It’s grief.

Grief for what didn’t happen.

Grief for the love that was withheld.

For the safety you were promised and never received.

For the younger self inside you, still waiting for someone to make it right.

Anger is grief with a weapon in its hand.

But if we dare to take the weapon away, grief becomes devotion.

Devotion to healing.

To truth.

To becoming.

The ancient wisdom tells us: when we cling, we suffer.

And anger is the great clinging—

To how we thought life should go,

To who we thought would love us,

To the fairness we believed we were owed.

But life is not bound by our vision. It breaks us open on purpose. Not to punish—but to reveal. To strip us of our false selves, the ones made of fear and fury, so that the radiant one within—the one made of light—can finally emerge.

You were never meant to carry this fire alone.

You were meant to transform it.

To let it heat the forge of your becoming.

To burn away illusion and rise not with scorn, but with clarity.

So let this be the beginning.

The calling-out of the ancient trickster that anger is.

Let us name the ways it has lied to us.

Let us see clearly how it wore our faces and distorted our truths.

Let us trace its smoke trails through the body and call out every place it tried to hide—every ache, every inflammation, every bitter thought dressed up as insight.

And then let us breathe.

Let us unclench.

Let us lay down our armor and our arguments.

Let us say what needs to be said—not to win, but to be free.

Let us cry for what was lost, and smile at what is still possible.

Because it is not too late.

To live from love.

To trust the mystery.

To remember who we are beneath all the noise.

You are not the one who was hurt.

You are the one who is healing.

You are not the storm.

You are the one who walks through it, and comes out shining.

So if your bones ache with stories never told, if your breath catches in the throat of what was never forgiven, let this be the moment you turn inward—not to punish, but to listen. Let the fire burn clean. Let the false gods of anger fall to ash. There is a voice beneath all the noise, quiet and steady, that remembers who you were before the world hardened you. Return to that voice. Return to the softness that still lives underneath the scars. You are not broken. You are becoming. And somewhere inside, untouched by pain or rage, is a river of peace that has been waiting for you to come home.

Hari Om Tat Sat