Midlife rage was making me ill. Here’s how I learnt to control it

I’m walking to the tube in north London when I hear a bicycle bell ring imperiously behind me. Irritation flares. The pathway is narrow, flanked by brambles. Does this Lycra warrior really expect me to fling myself into a hedge? He rings again, insistently, and I spin around. “I’m ringing my bell,” he says, and dings it once more with a flourish. Just like that, I see red. I can almost feel the cortisol flooding my body; any rational response jets off into the ether. I bellow out a string of expletives, then follow them with a vehement finger.

After he wobbles off, I stand there vibrating with rage, my heart beating and my palms sweaty. As my fury subsides, I find myself wondering: where on earth has this newfound rage come from? And what is it doing to my health?

When I was in my teens and early 20s, my youthful anger triggered some ugly scenarios. I still wince when remembering a row with my brother, at the Grand Canyon, that was so seismic we came within a whisker of being arrested. However, as I hit my mid-20s I learned to bite my tongue, grit my teeth and keep quiet for a more peaceful life.

Over the past couple of years, though, my short fuse has ramped up again. The slightest irritation now sends me from nought to 100: dog owners not picking up their mutt’s mess; train travellers chattering on their phone’s loudspeaker; people barging into me because they’re too busy scrolling; my ex-husband not listening to a word I’m saying… the list goes on. The smallest annoyances now prompt snarky retorts, sarcastic asides and, more often than not, full-blown argy-bargies.

I’m not alone, either. According to a recent poll by the Hologic Global Women’s Health Index, British women are the angriest in Europe, with almost half (47%) reporting they feeling more anger this year than last. So, why are we all furious, and what is this outpouring of rage doing to our health?

I turn to psychotherapist Anna Mathur, author of How to Stop Snapping at the People You Love (As Well as the Ones You Don’t). She explains that when I confronted that cyclist, I shot straight into flight-or-fight mode (clearly fight, in this case). Stress hormones flooded my body, preparing for action. My breathing and heart rate increased; my muscles tensed and released lactic acid as my immune system switched to red alert.

While the occasional stress response isn’t a problem, modern life has us caught in a constant twilight zone of hyper-arousal, explains Mathur. This means our bodies can’t tell the difference between a life-threatening emergency and a minor altercation, releasing adrenaline and cortisol each time.

Adrenaline – our “action” hormone – raises heart rate, sharpens focus and gets us ready to respond. However, when we’re repeatedly triggered, it leaves us feeling wired, impatient, jumpy and irritable.

Cortisol, meanwhile, keeps us alert to threats, but if our levels stay elevated for too long, it can affect sleep, mood, memory, appetite, blood pressure and immune function.

Left unaddressed, these hormones can cause angry overreactions to even the mildest exchange, while long-term anger and irritation have been linked to sleep issues, anxiety disorders, gut issues and heart disease.

“If your inner fire alarm goes off at the faintest hint of smoke, it means your body runs permanently on high alert,” explains Mathur, who says she’s not remotely surprised that British women are so angry.

“We’re exhausted and overwhelmed because modern life blurs the boundaries between work and rest. We’re parenting while working, working while caregiving, looking after children while supporting ageing parents. When you’re constantly overstretched, of course something has to give, so we have an epidemic of misplaced rage.”

That chimes. My anger feels random, chaotic; I’m snapping at stupid little things. So, how can I eradicate it?

“Anger isn’t your enemy,” insists Mathur, to my surprise. “It’s a messenger, a boundary, sometimes even a force for good. The health risks arise when it is allowed to dominate without being understood. The goal is not to eliminate anger, but to recognise whatever it is trying to tell us.”

I am expecting Mathur to give me trite tips and am geared to growl if she suggests tree-hugging or aromatherapy baths. Instead, she asks about my childhood; how my family expressed anger; how safe I felt; what happened when I was upset or angry.

Like many women in their 60s, I learned early that little girls were supposed to be “nice”, to put others first, to be polite and accommodating. I became the archetypal people-pleaser, terrified to offend for fear I’d be shunned. “You built up survival techniques,” says Mathur. “The fear of being abandoned led you to abandon your true self.”

That lands. I can clearly remember pulling back, making myself small and inoffensive. Mathur asks me what I’d say to that little girl who twisted her personality to fit in with everyone else. It feels uncomfortable, but I come up with: “You’re fine just as you are. It’s OK to say what you feel”. Mathur smiles. “This is the start. Understanding anger is about unpicking our beliefs, habits, expectations.

“The key is to find out what’s going wrong: that’s often people-pleasing, self-criticism, perfectionism.”

These lead to resentment, the quiet rage of unmet needs which, Mathur says, has probably been accumulating for decades.

She uses the metaphor of a saucepan on a hob. Few of us leap directly from calm to explosive rage. Instead, there is a gradual build. A gentle simmer becomes a rolling boil, which eventually bubbles over. The problem is that many of us are so accustomed to ignoring the simmering that we only notice our emotions once they boil over. Every sigh, every eye roll, every clenched jaw, Mathur argues, is a warning sign.

Mathur’s tips for stopping the pot from boiling over do include those anticipated wellness tips – breathing and baths and getting into nature – but mainly she urges me to look closely at my anger and to unearth the origins of resentment, rather than papering over cracks. “Do you know what often sits under the bubbling, erupting anger?” she asks. “Grief. Sometimes anger emerges because it is easier to say: ‘I am furious’ than ‘I am hurt’.”

She advises me to sit with my inner child again. I squirm a bit – it’s a practice that makes me cringe. But I try, and I find that a tranche of my anger did indeed start with grief. My father died when I was 10 and grief simply wasn’t on the menu in 1970. So, what did I do with it? Squash it down.

Every time I feel my pot simmer, Mathur tells me to notice what’s going on. Am I feeling unheard, patronised, ignored? Instead of pressing the lid down, she suggests I name my emotions (I feel sad, I feel overwhelmed, I don’t feel safe) and ask what I need (a hug, a cry, a mad dance around the kitchen).

The time after our session is a steep learning curve. There’s not a magic wand I can wave, but I do have more understanding about where my anger comes from – and awareness is always the first step. I’m far more grounded and find myself acting more as a grown-up than a hurt little girl. I learn to ask for help and don’t take on every task that appears.

After just a week of using Mathur’s methods, I start to pause before responding. In the past, after handymen have done a shoddy job, for example, I have snapped and seethed. This time, when a painter leaves drips and spills, I take a deep breath, stand taller, and tell him calmly how I want things fixed. It may sound small, but it’s a huge shift.

Do I still have the occasional explosion? I’d be lying if I said I didn’t. I’m a work in progress – and there’s something about entitled cyclists hogging pavements that still rings my bell.