I’ve been thinking a lot about alignment lately. Not the fluffy, Instagram version of alignment — but the real, lived, sometimes uncomfortable kind. The kind where your head and your heart are actually working together.
Because this is the thing I believe more than anything else:
your heart should always be making the decisions, and your brain should be doing the admin.
The planning. The logistics. The ideas. The “how”.
The heart decides. The brain supports.
But here’s the question that keeps circling me:
How do we actually hear the heart clearly?
Because I don’t think the heart doesn’t know what it wants. I think it always knows.
I just don’t think it speaks clearly until it’s been allowed to say everything it’s been holding.
And that includes the stuff we’re taught not to feel.
The grief. The rage. The crossness. The anger.
Especially the anger.
Why So Many of Us Are Afraid of Our Own Anger
I’m convinced that so many of us were conditioned, very early on, to shut anger down completely.
Anger was “too much”. Too loud. Too inconvenient. Too dangerous.
And because nobody ever said to us as children, “There will be times when you feel furious. There will be times when things feel unfair, or shocking, or devastating — and that’s okay”, we learned to push it all down instead.
But anger doesn’t disappear when you ignore it. It hardens.
It turns into layers of sadness. A shell around the heart. A dullness that makes it harder to hear what you want, what you need, and what is no longer right for you.
And then we wonder why we feel disconnected. Why clarity feels just out of reach. Why we keep looping the same patterns.
Anger Cracks the Shell
This is the part people don’t like to hear.
Anger is not the problem. Anger is often the doorway.
When anger is expressed safely, consciously, and without directing it at another person, it cracks the shell around the heart. And when the shell cracks, grief comes next. And when grief moves, the heart can finally speak.
This is exactly what happened to me.
I walked in the woods and raged. Out loud. Fully. Messily.
I raged at people. At situations. At things that had happened years ago and things that had happened recently. I let it come out of my body instead of letting it live inside me.
And it’s important to say this clearly: getting angry at a person is rarely helpful.
It increases your stress. It increases theirs. It creates disconnection. And it often leaves you feeling ashamed, regretful, or like the “bad one”.
That’s why I’m such a fierce advocate for healthy anger outlets.
Let Nature Hold It
For me, anger needs space. And it needs something bigger than me to hold it.
Nature can take it.
Around the corner from where I live, there’s a place where you can go shooting. That’s one outlet. But for me, anger release has to be done somewhere alive. Somewhere vast.
A dear friend of mine — Jen, who guides so many of the meditations inside Devotion — goes into the sea and screams underwater. I tried it this summer.
Not in my local sea (ours is…not exactly pristine), but in the south of France, in water so mineral-rich it felt like it was holding me back.
I went under. And I screamed. And screamed. And screamed.
No one could hear me. The universe could. And something shifted.
Now, whenever something annoys me, shocks me, or lands uncomfortably in my body, I release it straight away. Sometimes it’s a full scream. Sometimes it’s silent.
I’ll open my jaw wide — so wide my face almost feels stuck — and I’ll hold it there until the energy moves. Sometimes it makes me yawn afterwards, which always makes me laugh, because it reminds me how much was sitting there.
And occasionally I think, God, I must be angrier than I realise. And that’s okay.
Sometimes I’ll scream to the left, to the middle, to the right — because from an Eastern perspective, the left is feminine, the right is masculine, and we hold different things on each side.
Sometimes it’s my mother. Sometimes it’s a friend. Sometimes it’s men. Sometimes it’s the patriarchy. Sometimes it’s something horrific I’ve read in the news.
You don’t have to know exactly what you’re releasing.
You just have to let it move.
Go Be Dramatic About It
Go and scream at the moon. Honestly. Go and do a sweary walk in the rain. Let it be dramatic. Let it be theatrical. If you’re on holiday, scream into the sea. Or a lake. Or a river.
Let the body finish the sentence it never got to complete. Because underneath all of that anger, your heart is waiting. And when the heart finally feels heard, it becomes incredibly clear.
When the Heart Is Clear, the Brain Becomes Brilliant
Once the heart speaks, the brain knows exactly what to do. And one of the mantras that dropped in for me during this process was this:
“I am becoming whoever my business needs me to become.”
If you’re standing at the edge of a new chapter — in your career, your relationship, your identity — this matters. You cannot carry old stories into a new future.
“I’m not good at tech.”
“I’m bad at social media.”
“I’m just not that kind of person.”
Those stories have to go. Instead, it becomes:
I am becoming whoever I need to become for this to happen.
Not overnight. Not perfectly. But intentionally.
Everything Is a Seduction
This next part might sound unrelated — but it isn’t. A mantra dropped into my body the other day, probably because we’re in Scorpio season:
Everything is a seduction.
And I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.
The shape of a leaf. A sunset. A cinnamon bun.
What if the point wasn’t to rush through life — but to let it flirt with you? To slow down enough to be seduced by it? I’m starting to think the universe’s greatest pleasure is being experienced through a body that can feel. And the ultimate gift back might be to flirt outrageously with it in return.
So that’s what I’m doing.
Flirting with life. With pleasure. With beauty. With slowness.
Celebrating Success in the Nervous System
This month, I’ve also been anchoring joy.
Every sale. Every good moment. Every spark of excitement.
I jump on my trampoline like an absolute loony and let my body register: this is good. Because happiness and sadness come in waves — but joy is different.
Joy can exist even on a day you never want to repeat. It’s a crumb. A flicker. A laugh in the middle of grief. And those crumbs matter.
So if there’s one thing I want you to take from this, it’s this:
Don’t wish your darkness away.
Turn the light on.
Let the anger move. Let the grief follow. And trust that on the other side of it, your heart already knows exactly where you’re meant to go.
I’d love to hear how this lands for you. Truly.
