The Fucking Rage No One Warned Me About

Angry Fanny

We have talked about hormones and anxiety and now its time to talk about the rage.... oh yes we are going there

No one told me about the rage, the menaopause rage.

Not this kind.

Not the kind that comes out of nowhere and hijacks your entire body.

Not the kind that has you snapping over something ridiculous — and then sitting there thinking, what the fuck was that?

They told me about hot flushes.

They told me about brain fog.

They told me my body might change.

But no one — and I mean no one — told me I might feel this angry.

And not just “a bit irritable.”

I’m talking about a deep, simmering, chest-tightening, can’t-ignore-it kind of rage.

The kind that makes you want to scream, cry, walk out, burn it all down… sometimes all before lunchtime.

I have never cried so much in my life.

And I have never felt this angry about things I used to be able to just let pass.

Things that I would have brushed off, laughed off, swallowed down…

Now?

They hit differently.

They land harder.

They stay longer.

And the hardest part?

The people closest to me didn’t know what to do.

Nick — my rock, my calm, the man with the patience of a saint — looking at me like he wanted to help but didn’t have a clue how.

Grace — watching me, probably wondering what version of me she was going to get that day.

And me?

Not even recognising myself half the time.

There were moments I snapped at Nick over something tiny — something so small it didn’t even matter — and instantly thought, why did I just do that?

Moments where I could hear my own tone and didn’t even like the sound of it coming out of me.

And then Grace would walk into the room… and I’d feel it instantly. That shift. That quiet thought in my head: I don’t want her to see me like this.

At first, I thought I was losing it.

Honestly.

I’d react to something small — something I would’ve brushed off before — and suddenly I’m furious.

Properly furious.

And then comes the guilt.

“Why am I like this?”

“What’s wrong with me?”

“Get a grip.”

But here’s the thing no one bloody says out loud:

This isn’t just hormones.

Or at least… it doesn’t feel like just hormones.

This feels like years — decades — of swallowing shit I didn’t want to swallow.

Keeping the peace.

Being the good one.

Not making things awkward.

Not being “too much.”

Holding it together… for everyone.

And now?

Now my body’s like:

“Yeah… we’re not doing that anymore.”

Because suddenly, the things I used to tolerate?

I can’t.

I don’t have the energy for fake conversations.

I don’t have the patience for being overlooked.

I don’t have the capacity to keep saying “it’s fine” when it’s very much not fucking fine.

And that’s where the rage lives.

Not in the hormones alone…

but in the realisation of how much I’ve put up with.

That’s the bit that’s uncomfortable.

Because it’s easier to say:

“It’s just menopause.”

Neat. Tidy. Dismissed.

But what if it’s not?

What if this anger is actually clarity?

What if it’s the first honest reaction I’ve had in years?

There are moments I genuinely don’t recognise myself.

Moments I think:

“This isn’t me.”

But then there’s another voice — quieter, but sharper — that says:

“No… this is you without the filter.”

And that’s confronting as hell.

Because if this is me?

Then I have to admit something:

I’ve been suppressing a lot more than I realised.

This rage isn’t pretty.

It’s messy.

It’s unpredictable.

It’s inconvenient.

But it’s also… revealing.

It’s showing me what I’m done with.

What I won’t tolerate anymore.

Where I’ve been shrinking, softening, smoothing things over just to keep the peace.

And I’m tired.

Not just physically.

I’m tired of pretending.

So no — I don’t have this all figured out.

I’m still in it.

Still catching myself mid-reaction.

Still having moments where I think, “that was a bit much.”

Still seeing the impact on the people I love and wishing I could explain it better… even when I don’t fully understand it myself.

But I’m also starting to ask better questions.

What am I actually angry about?

Where have I been silent when I shouldn’t have been?

What am I done carrying?

Because maybe this isn’t something to shut down.

Maybe it’s something to listen to.

What I’m learning about coping (because I am still figuring this out)

I don’t have a perfect system. I don’t have it “handled.” But I am finding small things that stop me from burning everything down on a Tuesday afternoon:

• Walking it off before I speak it out loud — even 10 minutes of distance changes the tone of everything

• Naming it instead of becoming it — “this is rage, not reality” helps me pause before I react

• Saying out loud: “I need a minute” — especially to Nick, instead of snapping and regretting it later

• Letting myself cry without turning it into a failure — it passes quicker when I stop fighting it

• Removing myself from the room when I feel the heat rising — not as avoidance, but as protection for everyone

• Writing things down before I explode them onto people I love — because not every feeling needs an audience in real time

None of this is perfect. Some days I still get it wrong. But I’m learning that coping doesn’t mean being calm all the time — it means catching myself before I damage what I actually care about.

So if you’re sitting there feeling it too…

The anger.

The tears that come out of nowhere.

The “I don’t even know who I am right now” feeling…

Let me say this clearly:

You’re not broken.

You’re not “too much.”

You’re not losing your mind.

You might just be finally telling the truth.

And yeah… that truth comes with a bit of fucking fire.

Maybe the rage isn’t the problem.

Maybe it’s the part of you that’s finally had enough.

And honestly?

About time.

Love from Missy Moo xxx