The Fury Cleanse

I’ve heard it said—and I believe it—that every experience has a bright side, a learning opportunity. As humans with free will, how we choose to observe and interpret each moment is one of our built-in superpowers. That said, let’s be real: some emotions are sticky and stormy, unwilling to reveal their purpose, plan, or lesson. Anger, for instance. For most of my life, I’ve shoved it aside, numbed it out, softened the edges. Rarely do I allow myself to honor it, honestly and fearlessly.

And let me tell you—yesterday, it refused to be ignored. It wasn’t just a 'weird-dream' morning crankiness—I’ve danced that dance. This was deeper, sharper, and harder to shake. This was insatiable. Unquenchable. I tried movement shaking and dancing it away. Still there. It clung to me like static and insisted on closer inspection. Fine. What?! What?? And there it was. Not just anger. FURY. A tidal wave.

“I want to be thin!” it screamed. 
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Not politely or wistfully. Not in a wellness-goal, intention-setting, affirming kind of way. This was primal. Rageful. A red-hot eruption that cut through all my delusional bypassing. It didn’t care about cultural expectations or body-positive compassion or moderate, reasonable self-talk. It did not want balance. It wanted TRUTH. And apparently, the truth was: I’m fed up.

I’m fed up with the excuses, the gentle indulgences, the soothing stories. I’m sick of being hungry, of negotiating with cravings, of pretending I’m at peace when my body is screaming for more. It felt good to admit it. Even to hate it. Even to hate myself for the never ending sabotage and inevitable spiral. I wrote furiously: 

​"I’m sick and tired of being HUNGRY. I don’t want to be hungry ever again. FUCK you, hunger! I can’t trust you. You LIE! I am not in need of anything for 14 days."

What a relief. That’s the power of fury—it doesn’t negotiate. It slices through the noise and lays it bare. Beneath all my gentle intentions was a core truth: I’d been pretending balance and moderation were enough, but I was faking it. Something inside me knew it wasn’t right—I was waiting for the shoe to drop, for old behavior to sneak back in. I couldn’t detach. I was tangled in familiar patterns and wishful thinking. Fury cut through all of it like a hot knife. Brutal, yes—but brilliantly clear. My goal wasn’t aligned with what my body really wanted. Fury to the rescue—who knew? Without it, I might still be fake-moderating my way through madness, AGAIN!

So I made a decision* (cut off all other options). I’m fasting. Cleansing. Just tea and water. Nothing to fix, just a system reset. And you’d be shocked by how right it feels. Everything I’ve done up to this point—clearing out trigger foods, hoarding detox tea (Nettle, Hibiscus, Chaga, Burdock Root, Ginger, Mango Ginger, Smooth Move, Fenugreek, Raspberry, Mullein… I could open a shop)—all of it suddenly clicked. Even aspirin made the cut. (Caffeine withdrawal is no joke.)

By the afternoon meditation time, I wasn’t glowing—I was quiet. Hollowed out, in the best possible way. Not because the hunger had vanished, but because something deeper had surfaced: a decision that felt cellular. The old part of me—the excuse-maker, the gentle negotiator, the saboteur—had stepped aside (at least for the moment). Not with drama, but with a kind of weary bow. In her place was something stripped down, steady, and certain. I didn’t feel triumphant. I felt emptied. Clear. Like the hunger had finally named itself, and with that truth came peace.

During that afternoon's meditation, so many thoughts drifted past like boats on a river—some familiar, some surprising. No need to chase or catalog them. But somewhere mid-stream, something different floated by—something quieter, but undeniable. I caught a glimpse of what it might mean to give away my emptiness. To surrender that vague, gnawing sense of not enough. That restless current of longing—for acknowledgement, for intimacy, for stillness—that never quite names itself, never feels fully satisfied. It was just there, bobbing gently in the flow, waiting for me to notice. A subtle shimmer beneath the surface. And I saw it. I COULD LET GO OF EMPTINESS ITSELF.  I could actually turn that over. Let that go.

Not fix it. Not soothe it. Not embrace or honor it. Just let it go.

And honestly? I was floored. How had I missed this? After all that searching, it turns out, this emptiness inside wasn’t some sacred portal or cosmic to-do list item. It was just... noise. A drama queen with a fog machine. Hunger’s shady cousin wearing a different costume. Spiritual static dressed up as deep longing. And suddenly, I didn’t need to decode it or dive into it or drag it to therapy. I could just laugh, wave, and let that slippery bastard float downstream. Poof.

​​Fury, it turns out, is brilliant—when you let her have the mic. Not forever. Not on repeat. But for that one knockout moment of clarity? She slaps. She doesn’t whisper affirmations or light candles—she kicks the door in, points at the truth, and dares you to deal with it. And when you do? When you really listen and let her burn off the bullshit? You don’t just feel lighter. You are lighter.

So yeah, I’m sipping my absurd teas, giving my saboteur a well-earned nap, and leaning into this strange, radiant relief. Hunger can take a hike. Emptiness too. For now, I’ve got fury in my corner—and she’s not here to coddle. She’s here to set me free.

* decision(n.) mid-15c., decisioun, "act of deciding," from Old French décision (14c.), from Latin decisionem (nominative decisio) "a decision, settlement, agreement," noun of action from past-participle stem of decidere "to decide, determine," literally "to cut off," from de "off" (see de-) + caedere "to cut" (from PIE root *kae-id- "to strike"). (Source: https://www.etymonline.com/word/decision)

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