A woman details her experience at a rage room as a way to confront repressed anger stemming from personal trauma and societal anxieties, highlighting the challenges women face in expressing anger and the growing frustration with current events.
“Choose your weapon,” the man said, pointing to the wire rack above me that held sledgehammers, wrenches and crowbars. His words broke through my anxious thoughts, bringing me back to the room.I mumbled to myself.
My hands burned inside my protective gloves, slick with sweat. I stood in the prep room next to my husband, waiting for our turn. My legs began to tremble as adrenaline surged through me like a strong electrical current. A tight lump formed in my throat.It was meant to be a fun night out celebrating my husband’s 50th birthday. We were going somewhere we’d never been before, to a “rage room,” a confined space that offered a controlled area to release your emotions. Before we walked in, I thought I’d dealt with my anger in the ways I was supposed to, including therapy. What I didn’t know yet was that my body was holding onto more repressed anger than I realised — from both years of traumatic experiences and an unrelenting news cycle.say they feel angry toward the federal government. From significant increases in healthcare and housing costs to critical research funding cuts to the gradual erosion of women’s rights and LGBTQ+ rights — it’s enough to send many Americans to their breaking point.Anger has always been hard for me to express without feelings of shame and guilt creeping in. In an interview with Good Morning America, author Jennette McCurdy described the story of her new novel, Half Her Age. The book looks at female rage, an emotion McCurdy says is often muted in our society. “As women,” she said, “we’re told to accommodate the people around us, to be polite, and to be kind at the expense of our own well-being.” Earlier that night, as I stood in the prep room, the idea of expressing anger this way was both thrilling and unnerving. We were told to choose from a rack of protective uniforms. I pulled one of the full-length mesh onesies off the hanger and stepped into a pair of tall black rubber boots. As I waited for further instruction, my stomach clenched, and I forced out an exhale in an attempt to calm myself.Advertisement From the top rack, I chose my weapon, pretending to be unfazed. I squeezed the long metal hammer and a large square mallet in each palm. They were dense and heavy, pulling my arms downward and sending my heart racing with anticipation. I let out a self-deprecating laugh, attempting to ease the tension in the air. As I pulled my helmet over my head and adjusted the ear protection, I glanced in my husband’s direction, searching his eyes for reassurance. His mouth turned upward in a smile, then he pushed the visor down over my face. I felt ridiculous, but we were ready. The man led us down a narrow hallway, lined with protective sheets on the floor. He stopped in front of an open door, waved in the direction of a small black box on the wall, and said, “Pick a playlist.” As soon as I saw it, the choice was obvious.One last thing, the man warned. “No hitting the walls or each other.” My breath caught as an intrusive thought flashing in my mind — me hitting the wall with a hammer and screaming. I shook my head, trying to dismiss it. “Of course not,” I said. As we stepped into the 100-square-foot room, glass crunched beneath my feet. I noticed the walls were covered with long wooden panels with handwritten comments. One message on the opposite side, scribbled in red ink, stood out, as if it were meant for me. It said, “Do it angry. Do it mad.” The door closed behind us, and we were alone. From above, a deep throbbing buzz of an electric guitar filtered through the speakers and got louder until the floor was vibrating. I didn’t know where to begin, so I started jumping up and down, trying to loosen my limbs.I moved to the corner, holding my hammer in my hand, hovering over broken dishes. It was awkward at first, gently tapping and cracking at each one, like a test.I picked up a few ceramic plates, tossing them against the wall — followed by a clank, a smash and the sound of my own voice cackling. It was uncomfortable to stop worrying about how I sounded and looked. I closed my eyes for a moment, thinking of my high school days when I was careless and I let my body lead.Like a slow-burning fuse threatening to ignite, a sudden urge rushed through me to break, to shatter everything I saw. I swung the hammer up and down, hitting the tire, the plates and glasses, with more force, each hit louder than before. And for a moment, I stopped trying to be in control and finally let go. This acts of “throwing or breaking something safely” and “screaming” can be healthy ways to release rage and tension, according to theat an early age after she had a sudden accident to struggling with infertility as an adult and several months of horrifying breaking news updates ― it all shape-shifted into energy. I reached for the crowbar and swung it like a baseball bat against a metal shard lying on the floor.As I pounded metal against metal, I lost track of where I was. My husband shouted from behind me, “Yeah! That’s it!” His pride was palpable and it was the encouragement I needed to hear. The music continued, making my ears ring. Still, I wanted to keep going. I hit the tire as hard as I could, my blood rushing to my arms and chest. Anger came out in swooping movements that ended with glass breaking and metal clanging. I pictured myself as the adolescent I never got to be and the adult still healing from it all. For years, I’d been told to keep things to myself, not be overly emotional, and that my feelings were “too much.” Though I’d made progress in therapy, learning to set more boundaries, I’d always defaulted to being a people pleaser and keeping the peace. But now something unexpected happened. I saidTo the beat of the music, I screamed and hit the tire again, this time with a long wrench, singing along to the song’s 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. As the song ended, I looked down at the glass scattered in sharp fragments at my feet, accomplishment washing over me.Though my head was pounding, I noticed a new sensation in my chest, spreading across my body — it was physical relief.Afterward, my husband and I walked to dinner, feeling lighter and happier. Strangely enough, 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. We sat side by side at the high top tables, one of his hands resting across my leg. Leaning my head on his shoulder, I watched the people around us as they sipped their martinis and we waited for our food. For the first time in months, maybe years, my body was completely at ease.I thought I’d dealt with my anger before that night, but I was wrong. At first, when I started throwing and hitting things, I was self-conscious. I was worried I might hurt myself or, worse, accidentally injure my husband. But, with each swing, I forced the energy out — like bursting a helium balloon between my hands — the air rushing above me. McCurdy says women should try “channeling anger in a healthy way” to “help you find closure” that you may not get elsewhere. Unlike in therapy, where I’d talk or maybe yell to slow the racing thoughts in my mind, the rage room gave me a physical release. This time, I did what I needed — allowing myself to scream, hit, resist and rebel. It finally lifted the weight that had been pressing against my chest for decades. Now, when my anger rises up again, I won’t hesitate. I’ll roll my windows down, go for a walk in the woods or turn the music up in the kitchen to let out a primal scream. Letting rage surface in any form it shows up is what really matters, without fear of failure, self-doubt or judgement, and without silencing ourselves.Whether it happens alone in a room or alongside others at a peaceful protest, this is how we begin to take back our power. 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