Why “Let Go of Anger” Is the Worst Advice in Co-Parenting with Narcissists

Let’s talk about the kind of rage that simmers under your ribcage.

The type that isn’t “I’m mildly annoyed,” but rather “I could punch drywall in a crowded room.”

The kind that isn’t just about what happened last week—but has layers.  Years.  Bloodlines.

I’m talking about burnout by Anger.

Not the kind of burnout that comes from overwork (though that’s part of it), but the kind that comes from constantly having to hold your Anger back.

Constantly trying to make it palatable.  Digestible.  Acceptable.

Especially as a woman.  Especially in leadership.  Especially when you’re the one who’s supposed to be “evolved.”

And especially when you’re in the trenches of high-conflict co-parenting—navigating narcissists, gaslighting, financial coercion, malicious compliance, legal system bullshit, and the unbearable tightrope of trying to protect your kids without setting fire to your own nervous system.

Because on the outside, you’re calm (mostly).  Measured.  Shielding.

But on the inside?  It’s like curdled milk—souring under the weight of all the vile, nasty sh*t you wish you could expose.

They have no idea what you’re up against.

And they shouldn’t.  You want to protect them—not just from the chaos, but from knowing how cruel and manipulative the other side really is.

But there’s a part of you that wants to scream every secret from the roof—not for revenge (maybe a little), but because the injustice is rotting in your bones and you want it out of you!

And still… You don’t.

Because they don’t deserve the burden.  Even if the “others” deserve to be exposed.

Allow me to be crystal clear:

This isn’t a blog about “letting go” or “forgiving for your own peace.”

Because when I hear that kind of vague spiritual bypassing, all I want to do is scream.

Loudly.

Preferably into a couple of very specific faces.

The Problem with Nice Advice 

“Just forgive.”

“They’re not worth your energy.”

“Holding onto anger only poisons you.”

“Don’t let them have that power over you.”

People say these things as if they’re handing you medicine.

But it feels more like they’re giving you a jammed shotgun while a bear is still in your tent.

You can’t forgive what you haven’t metabolized.

And you can’t metabolize anything when you’re still actively being gaslit, disrespected, or manipulated.

What If Anger Is the Most Loyal Part of You?

Here’s the truth I’ve come to:

My Anger is a protector.  It has kept me alive in rooms filled with danger.

It’s the force that screamed:

“No.  Not again.  Not this time.”

That’s not something to erase. 

That’s something to bow to.

In Buddhist psychology, Anger is often described not as a sin, but as an energy of clarity—a call to boundaries.

In Stoicism, it’s a signal that our sense of justice has been violated.

In trauma science, it’s the mobilization phase—the surge of energy our nervous system releases to protect us from a threat.

But what happens when we stay in that phase forever?

When our adrenals don’t get to stop bracing?

Burnout happens.  That’s what.

The Real Prescription (Not Platitudes) 

So I started asking (with the support of my bad*ss counselor):

If I can’t “just forgive”… what can I do?  Cause my rage is devouring me. 

Here’s where I landed: I started treating forgiveness not as a moral mandate, but as a biological experiment in nervous system repair.

A process.  A practice.

Something that begins with Humility—not toward the person who harmed me, but toward my own capacity to make terrible mistakes, and yet still change.  Evolve.  Transform.  Imperfectly.

The Forgiveness Framework

(That Doesn’t Require You to Be a Saint, ’Cause I’m Not)

1.  Name the Rage.  And Write It Out.

Use it as data.  What boundary got violated?  What value was trampled?

Rage is specific.  Let it speak… or Roar.  And give it a name.  I’m not joking.  I named mine.

She lives in my core—the place where my heart and stomach meet.

And she’s called Ragnara.

Don’t f*ck with her.  She has claws and teeth.  And venom.  If you see her... Run.

2.  Make It Sacred. 

In many Indigenous cultures, Anger is a signal from the ancestors—a cry for justice.

In Christianity, righteous Anger fueled prophets.

In Judaism, even God gets furious.

Don’t neuter it.  Bless it.

3.  Let the Body Finish the Cycle. 

Anger has a biological arc.  If you never let it move (yelling into a pillow, running, shaking, cold plunging, primal scream in the woods), it will fester.

Release it safely.

4.  Choose Your Container.

Do you want this energy to live in your body forever?

Or can you set it down—not for them, but for your own sanity and energy?

This isn’t about forgetting.  It’s about strategic discharge.

Close your eyes.  In your mind’s eye, locate where the rage lives inside your body.  Maybe it’s your chest.  Your throat.  Your gut.  Wherever it is—pull it out, gently.

Now place it into a container—but not a box.  A box feels like punishment or exile.  We’re not shaming this Anger.  We’re honoring it and letting it rest.

I picture something like a fishbowl—open-lidded and expansive—filled with nature: waterfalls, wildflowers, thick forests, mountain cliffs, warm sunlight.  All the elements that can hold fierce things with tenderness.

I ask the trees to keep it safe.  The rocks to ground it.  The river to hold its movement. Just for a while.  Just while I take the next step.

5.  Experiment With a New Emotion.

This is the wild card.

For me, Peace wasn’t an option—it felt too soft.  And when I don’t feel safe, soft feels dangerous.

Then I tried Courageous—might work for some.  It’s warmer.  Feels empowering. But at this stage in my life, it didn’t feel authentic.

So I tried on Humility—

Not groveling.  Not excusing.

Just a quiet moment of:

“I’m not perfect either.”

It softens the edge just enough to help me breathe again.

It reminds me: I’ve made mistakes too.

I’ve hurt people.

I carry regrets.

I hold guilt.

Even if they don’t.

That’s not the point.

The point is—I f*ck up too.

So I’ve been practicing harnessing my mistakes not as shameful burdens, but as grounded reminders:

I know what it’s like to cause pain.

Before I step into a situation with one of the Unnamables, I do something weird—but it works.

I dig deep. I think about my worst regret.

I squeeze that lemon.

I feel the sour sting of my guilt.

Then I picture them—in all their manipulative, maddening glory.

And I look them in the eye (in my mind’s eye) and say:

“I’ve made mistakes too.”

And then—(best part) I turn my back and walk away.

I lay down my arms.

I let the Warrior step out of battle to rest.

To reflect.

Because they don’t have the capacity or skill to take responsibility.

But I do.

And that fact—that practice, that visualization—

It cools my rage.

I still feel it.

But for those mindful moments…

It doesn’t burn me alive.

6.  Rewrite the Script.

You don’t have to label it “forgiveness.”

Maybe it’s “closing the chapter,” or “untethering,” or "taking a pause."

Call it whatever lets you sleep at night.

Ancient Wisdom, Reclaimed

• Buddhism: “Anger is like a burning coal you hold to throw at someone else.  You get burned first.” Yes.  And also—you must face the coal, not pretend it’s not hot.
• Stoicism: Seneca wrote, “The greatest remedy for anger is delay.” Not avoidance.  Delay.  Just enough time to choose who you want to be.
• Sufism: Anger is seen as an obstacle to union with the divine—but not one to bypass.  One to transmute.
• Modern Neuroscience: Polyvagal theory teaches us that Anger without safety becomes stuck energy.  But Anger with safety can be fuel for action, boundary, and change.

Final Thought 

I’m not here to tell you to let go.

I’m here to tell you that your Anger is a loyal Warrior.  A She-Tiger.  A gloriously monstrous Fierce Protector—and at some point, you may want to give her a rest.

Because if yours has been working as hard as my Ragnara has… she really needs it.

She doesn’t need to disappear.  She’s a brilliant teacher and a powerful force.

But she doesn’t have to run the show.

Start where you are.  Name your Anger.  Give her a place at the table.

And then, if you’re ready, try offering her a break.

Not a muzzle.  Not an exile.  Just… a little rest.

Then, practice and repeat. 

You’re not here to be a saint.

You’re here to be whole.

XO, Dani