There I was, running through the Boston Common, fists punching the warm evening air, drop-kicking the void, a concoction of rage and energy bursting through me.
It had been a long time since I had a relationship with anger. My turbulent childhood—mixed with the desire to rise beyond life circumstances—invited a deep desire for peace. There wasn't room for anger in my vision of self. And so, my inner intensity was silenced by a vast and calculated calm.
That all changed when I got on the sailboat.
Fresh from a month-long yoga teacher training in India, I was mentally, physically, and spiritually exhausted. I wanted to spend the rest of eternity melting away into an infinite cozy sofa.
But I couldn't.
Before leaving the U.S., a good friend and life mentor invited me to his organized mens sailing retreat. It was a chance to explore how to embody thoughtful, loving masculine presence in this world. I jumped at the opportunity to experience what he had in store.
Fast forward to September and I found myself on a tall-ship anchored off the coast of an uninhabited U.S island, alongside fifteen remarkable men. Together, we delved into a range of powerful topics through thoughtfully planned exercises. A few days in, we set out on rowboats towards the island's beach.
After landing, the rowboats departed and we were left anticipating.
"You're all going to get mad." one of the retreat leaders said.
The group looked around. What was he talking about?
"Here, let me show you."
He waded out into the water, and with shocking intensity began yelling, thrashing and pounding his fist into the endless ocean. It sounded like a bear fighting off a lion. I had never seen anything like it. It was fierce, it was scary, it was beautiful.
And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. He stood there beaming and serene, albeit slightly out of breath.
"Okay, now it's your turn. GET FUCKING ENRAGED."
So, naturally, I waded out to find my own place amongst the seaweed and rocks. Mustering every ounce of energy I felt absolutely certain I didn't possess, I gave the water a tentative flick. It sounded like a leaky faucet fighting off the urge to drip one last time. Womp womp.
The anger clearly wasn't present in my physical expression. Giving up would have been perfectly reasonable, but I didn't. Instead, I widened my stance, braced my core and let out a deep guttural roar. It didn't feel precisely like anger, but there was something brewing there.
Days later, the retreat wrapped up. It left me to wonder whether I had truly discovered anything about myself—or simply given the ocean one of its least impressive thrashings to date.
I returned to Boston to take care of my belongings before continuing on with world travel. It was a geo-limbo that gave me a glimpse of my old life.
There was only one problem.
A few months back, during my travels, my partner and I broke up. Because it was my first time back since then, I still had everything she'd left in my apartment.
It had been months since we had talked, and she made it clear she didn't want to be contacted. So, I phoned up one of our mutual friends...
"Hey man, this is super awkward, but I still have her stuff. Can you help?"
Within a few days she got back to me. Breaking up mid-travels left a mountain of unsaids. Like many well-meaning conversations, the unsaids emerged and we soon found ourselves texting emotions at each other. It got heated, fast.
A thought emerged. Maybe I should give this anger exercise another try.
I calmly left my apartment, tossed on a "Rage Playlist", and head-bobbed my way into Boston Common. As the music swelled, an immense energy began to bubble up inside. Soon, I found myself in a dark corner of the park letting it all out. I was sprinting, dropping into push-ups, bursting into head stands, fists punching the air and drop-kicking the void. And in that absurd moment, I felt as though I were somehow conversing with the universe itself—one wild gesture at a time. To anyone walking by, I looked like a crazy-person, and it was glorious.
On the walk back she unexpectedly texted me to apologize. As if, somehow the universe had spoken on my behalf to give her a glimpse of what transpired in that dimly lit corner of the Common. It felt magical, or at least like some form of poetic irony.
And then, I crashed into my bed and slept like a baby.
For so long, I had side-stepped anything resembling aggression. If my inner-darkness emerged, I bolted for the light-switch and turned on the calm. That aversion led me to say goodbye to a good woman, because I didn't have the emotional maturity to say fuck you instead.
Since that night, I'm learning to embrace my intensity, to harness it for good—or at least a decent workout.
This is my call to your divine masculine (whether you're a man or woman); go punch some fucking air. Rage it out. Let your darkness have its day. And then reflect on the immense power you hold inside.