Post 49. Anger, Part 1: The Day I Almost Snapped

An ugly moment. A powerful lesson. A strange kind of gift.

Emotions are strange things, aren’t they? Sometimes we try to ignore them for too long. Other times we let them take over and drive. We go from bottling everything up to over-identifying with every feeling, like they’re the whole truth of who we are. Neither extreme works for long.

Lately I’ve been thinking about anger. My anger, in particular. I still feel it often — but less and I’m more aware when it raises its head. But the way I carry it now is different. It doesn’t settle in like it used to. Doesn’t hijack the controls. It comes, I notice it, I listen. And then it tends to pass.

That shift didn’t happen overnight. And if I trace it back, it all started with one particular moment. A very specific kind of rage that rose out of nowhere and could’ve changed everything about my journey if I’d have let it take hold of me.

And no — it wasn’t the fire, or the pain, or the surgeries, or the loss. It wasn’t at myself, or cousin Brendan, or even the universe.

This was something else. Something more ordinary, in a way. And maybe that’s what made it sting.

It was just a regular day. South Norwood Safeway supermarket. I was out shopping with Mum and my older brother, Faron. I must’ve been around 15. We were queuing at the checkout when I remembered something we’d forgotten. I told Mum I’d nip off and grab it, then wandered off down one of the aisles.

That’s where I saw him. A bloke in his thirties most likely. He looked straight at me… and started laughing.

Not nervously. Not because he was caught off guard. He stared, followed me with his eyes, and giggled like I was entertainment.

I was wearing the clear plastic splint I had to keep on my face, so I stood out even more. Still figuring out how to walk through the world again.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t say a word. I just kept walking. I think I was in too much shock to do anything else.

You can’t always process those moments as they happen. Sometimes your body just carries you forward, and your brain catches up later.

By the time your mind catches up, you’re already somewhere else entirely

I grabbed what I needed and turned into a different aisle, hoping to avoid him. But he’d clearly found the whole thing funny enough to share.

He’d fetched his young son — maybe six or seven years old — and tracked me down.

“This is who I was telling you about, son!” he said, pointing at me. “Look how funny he looks!”

No hesitation. No embarrassment. He said it with a kind of cheerful pride — like he was showing his son a magic trick.

I stood there, stunned. I looked at the boy. He didn’t laugh. Just stared, like he didn’t understand what was going on. I remember thinking: “He’s too young to know how to respond to this… but he’ll remember it.”

And then I turned and walked away again.

Back at the till, I dropped the item into our trolley and kept my mouth shut. But something was bubbling up inside me.

How dare he? What kind of dad behaves like that in front of their kid? What chance does that boy have with a role model like that?

I felt the splint on my face — thick, rigid plastic. And I had the kind of thought I’m not proud of. “That could do some damage if I used it right.”

I was properly seething now. I didn’t want a conversation. I wanted retribution.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” I said calmly. Steam pretty much coming out of my ears.

I marched off, up and down the aisles, looking for him. In my head, the plan was fully formed. I’d find him. I’d headbutt him square on. Watch his nose explode.

Then I’d look his son in the eye and tell him, as clearly as I could:

“Don’t grow up to be like him.”

There was no doubt in my mind — that’s what I was going to do. And I’m not exaggerating when I say I could’ve done real damage.

But aisle after aisle, there was no sign of them.

By the time I reached the wine section at the back of the store, the anger had started to cool. The fire had peaked. And with every aisle I walked without finding them, a bit more of the fight started to drop out of me.

Eventually, I turned back.

I said nothing. Got in the car with Mum and Faron. Still said nothing. I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about it — until now.

Partly because I didn’t want the drama. I knew Mum and Faron would be livid. Probably want to report him. And I couldn’t face repeating it. I just wanted it gone.

But it never really went.

It stayed with me. Not like trauma exactly — but more like… residue. It sat inside me. It shaped something. And eventually, when the heat wore off and I was in a better headspace, it started teaching me things.

That moment gave me a proper test. A line in the sand. I could’ve crossed it. I nearly did. And I think it’s because of that — because I didn’t— that I started to know what anger really is.

How it works. How it shows up. How it tells you something you need to hear, but can’t be trusted to speak for you. And how it’s rarely about the moment you think it is.
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In so many moments, the challenge isn’t avoiding the line — it’s getting close without stepping into the red.

I’m not done with this story.

Because there’s more I want to say about how that interaction changed me — not just in the moment, but in how I carry myself now.

Next time I want to talk about what that man gave me. Because he did give me something. Maybe not intentionally. But the lesson was there all the same.

And I’ve got a few things to say about offence, perspective, stubbornness… and yeah, even Donald Trump gets a mention.

But I’ll leave you with this for now:

What’s a moment where you nearly became your anger?

What helped you pull back?

And what did you learn from it — once the fire had gone?

Thanks for reading. See you next week.