There are mornings when I wake up with overwhelming rage. It seems to come from a neglected part of myself—the unapologetic, not-so-nice girl that I’ve suppressed for far too long. It’s the version of me that doesn’t conform to societal expectations of goodness.
Was I ever truly nice, or was it a facade? More than mere pretense, I think it was a survival tactic.
As a first-generation immigrant, embracing nicety became the easiest path to navigate a world where connections dictated success.
The more agreeable I was, the fewer challenges I encountered. Survival meant conforming–being the pleasant person in a network-driven society.
But was that actually true? It seems people have made it all the more reason to keep me in check, reign me in or keep me from rising. The person inside me is waiting to tear itself out and bare its fangs.
To temper this simmering rage within me, I’ve turned to brewing tea, a ritual that has become more frequent on mornings when I wake up angry.
The heat coursing through my throat and chest has a soothing warmth that seems to pacify my fury.
So, if you find me quietly steeping tea in the morning, it’s not a reflection of inner tranquility; rather, it’s a remedy for the storm raging within—a desperate attempt to cool the flames of an angry woman.
