“Every woman has a reservoir of rage. It can either destroy her or remake her.” – Audre Lorde
Somewhere between the ages of 22 and 25, I found myself drowning on dry land, caught between an afflicted “good girl” identity and a longing for something that felt more true, more congruent, more authentic. I had my first panic attack in front of my parents while we ate grass-fed beef burgers and the ketchup stung my throat as a cry tried to come about. Confusion painted their faces, and in wonder they asked, “Why the panic? You’re fine, you’re safe, you have what you need.”
Which was true… in a physical sense.
Yet, the tension between what my inner being knew to be true and what I thought I needed to be due to the box that I found myself chained to became all too loud and problematic.
Was it rage? Was it anger? Was it a prolonged grief of what could be that roared like a wild fire in me?
And I quickly realized that I only need to get out of my own way, despite any system or structure that lead me to believe I had no choice but to stay…
Rage and Longing
“Rage” is a poetic way to describe the journey of grieving the identity that was placed on us and re-centering ourselves back to who we truly are.
Die My Love, the latest Jennifer Lawrence film, brilliantly toes the line of a woman in metaphorical captivity longing for the wild. It’s fully poetic, confusing, and rich. Poetic in narrative, confusing in structure, yet rich in themes or rage and longing.
This is story of a woman on the edge of a nervous breakdown, seeking self-destruction just to feel alive in the wake of birthing another human that has seemed to strip her of every other identity besides “mommy.”
The self-destructive rage she possesses is never towards her baby, but rather, towards the world that has put her into a shell of a home—or just a marriage with a checked out partner—where play is no longer in the equation of her marriage, work, or self. As audience members, we are unsure of what’s true and what’s not true as our character inches closer and closer to the edge—or perhaps freedom.
I could not help but wonder if stepping into the “rage” would be defeat or not. It seems more like an effort to find a new, reworked version of ourselves where titles and misplaced identities are stripped away, allowing us to feel alive and connected to ourselves once more. And this “rage” is a poetic way to describe the journey of grieving the identity that was placed on us through people, beliefs, or communities and re-centering ourselves back to who we truly are.
It is a longing that’s all too familiar in the world of womanhood. A longing that can be easily shushed or shoved away before we realize we have no real way of returning to the girl we truly know.
Made for More, and More, and More
You have to understand the story that had curated my life to be what I knew then. It was a story in which a system enforced ideas onto young women to become “yes women” who would nod, bear, and accept—and deny courage, guts, and boldness. It was almost looked down upon to be a woman who took up space, mind, body, and soul.
(Reader—and Mom—please note that thankfully, my parents never once inflicted this kind of ideology upon me.)
More specifically, women were pushed to the side in the faith communities I found myself in—from school to work—and when a woman spoke with boldness or assertiveness, she was quickly deemed “crazy.” It was not considered becoming for a woman to ask for what she needed, whether in a romantic relationship or within religious systems.
I recall a New Testament professor at my southern Baptist university very bluntly telling me, “Don’t think; you’re not very good at it.” I froze as most of the class tried to hide their lives while I tried to hold back my tears as I counted each tile in the ceiling. I recall feeling deeply small in a dozen romantic relationships whenever my needs were voiced or requested, where I was instead ignored and categorized as simply “highly sensitive.” And I just took it all for much longer than I should have.
And no, I do not look back on these moments as a victim, for so many—men and women alike—have been harmed by patriarchal ideology that has seeped into religious and faith spaces and souls. Instead, I look back on those moments as the beginning of an end—and the beginning of entering into the “more” that awaited me.
It was when I had finally shed old skin, old thought patterns, and old perceptions on what it meant to live, move, and be as a woman that something new came forth through the rugged soil.
The rage is what brought me to newness, to wholeness, and back to the girl I had somehow lost along the way. It was brought about with the help of friends, re-connecting with the hobbies that made me come to life, and learning to be OK with taking up space through voicing my opinions, needs, or longings.
Most importantly, I came to understand that the toxic thinking of patriarchy and what a woman’s role should look like was going to take me down a dead-end street. A street that would maybe not feel lonely, but suffocating…
Fearfully & Wonderfully Made
I think I have come to a place of calmness within me, that which is found on the other side of rage. A place of being curious to learn more about me and the things that delight me—and the things that scare me, too. I’ve heard it said that we are all fearfully and wonderfully made. But it’s our job to unlock that part of us with boldness and audacious choices and decisions.
The “rage” is what brought me to these newfound places, and brought me back to the version of me I was always made to be.
My apologies for forgetting her for quite some time…
This review was originally published on Easily Cultured on November 14, 2025. Republished here with the author’s permission.
