Am I Angry, or Am I Just Being Angry?
On moods, mistaken identities, and the strange relief of not taking yourself so personally
This post grows out of work I’ve been doing with Cynthia Bourgeault’s course Practicing Living Presence: Discovering the Mind of Christ Within, which itself is a sustained engagement with Kabir Helminski’s Living Presence. In particular, it draws from the chapter titled The Power of Being. What follows is not an attempt to fix anger, manage emotions, or become a calmer, nicer version of yourself. It emerged instead from noticing how easily we confuse a passing inner weather pattern with who we actually are. How quickly we slide from “anger is present” to “this is me now.” And how much unnecessary suffering that single grammatical shift creates.
Virgin Monk Boy writes across several collections, including Satire (Christian Nationalism and spiritual humor), Mary Magdalene, and Wisdom Jesus (Sufi Jesus).
This post is part of the Wisdom Jesus collection.
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When Anger Sounds Like the Truth
There is a peculiar confidence that comes with anger.
When anger arrives, it does not knock politely. It barges in like it owns the place. It speaks in full sentences, with footnotes. It carries a narrative, a backstory, and a closing argument. It does not present itself as a temporary visitor. It presents itself as truth.
“I am angry,” we say.
And that sounds harmless enough. But listen carefully to what that sentence is doing. It is not simply describing a state. It is making a claim about identity. It is saying, in effect, this is who I am right now. Not “anger is moving through the system,” but “I am this.”
The Subtle Violence of “I Am Angry”
This is where the trouble begins.
Because emotions, by their very nature, are transient. They arise. They intensify. They dissolve. They are weather, not terrain. But the moment we identify with them, we attempt to build a house in a thunderstorm and then act surprised when the roof won’t hold.
Weather Is Not the Landscape
A friend once told me a story about a fish.
Two young fish are swimming along when they pass an older fish coming the other way. The older fish nods and says, “Morning, boys. How’s the water?”
The two young fish swim on for a bit. Then one of them looks at the other and says, “What the hell is water?”
The Fish Who Didn’t Know What Water Was
The joke works because it lands on something uncomfortably true. The most fundamental realities are the hardest to see precisely because we are immersed in them. Being is like that. Presence is like that. Awareness is like that. We don’t “get” them. We inhabit them.
And yet, paradoxically, we spend most of our lives unaware of the very field that makes our lives possible.
Mistaking the Foam for the Sea
Instead, we identify with the foam.
Thoughts. Moods. Reactions. Roles. Stories. Emotional surges. These are the visible froth on the surface of experience. They are real, but they are not primary. They arise within something much larger, something quieter, something that does not fluctuate with every internal breeze.
That something is what the contemplative traditions call Being.
Being Is Not a Better Mood
Being is not a mood. It is not a personality trait. It is not calm, happy, spiritual, or enlightened. Being is the ground in which calm and agitation both appear. It is the field that holds anger without becoming angry.
This is where the question in the title becomes interesting.
Am I angry, or am I just being angry?
Identity Collapse and Emotional Possession
Those two statements may look similar, but they come from entirely different levels of consciousness.
When I say “I am angry,” I have collapsed my identity into a passing state. I have slid my sense of self all the way down to the level of emotion. Anger is no longer something happening. It is something I am. And from that place, anger doesn’t just express itself. It justifies itself. It recruits allies. It sharpens its knives.
When I say “anger is present,” something else happens. A small but decisive space opens. Not distance. Not repression. Not spiritual bypassing. Just space.
Intimacy Without Confusion
In that space, anger is allowed to be exactly what it is: energy, information, heat, intensity. It can be felt in the body. It can be honored. It can even be listened to. But it is no longer running the identity department.
This distinction matters more than we usually realize.
Most of our suffering does not come from emotions themselves. It comes from fusion with emotions. From the unconscious habit of letting whatever is loudest inside us take over the microphone and announce itself as “me.”
Hello, my name is Angry.
Hello, my name is Anxious.
Hello, my name is Hurt, Offended, Righteous, Exhausted.
Relocating the Center
Spiritual work, at least in this contemplative lineage, is not about silencing these voices. It is about relocating the center from which we listen.
There is a level of ourselves that can feel anger fully without being reduced to it. A level that can grieve without drowning. A level that can be passionate without being possessed.
This is not stoicism. It is not emotional detachment. It is not numbing out or pretending things don’t matter.
It is intimacy without confusion.
The Relief of Unhooking
Think again of the fish. The fish does not need to escape the water to know the water. It needs only to notice what has always been holding it. In the same way, we do not need to get rid of anger to find Being. We need only to stop mistaking anger for the whole of who we are.
When this noticing happens, even briefly, something subtle but profound shifts. The emotional charge does not necessarily disappear. But it loses its absolute authority. It is no longer the final word. It is one movement within a much larger field.
Standing in a Deeper Place
This is why moments of real seeing often feel strangely relieving, even when nothing has been fixed. The circumstances may be unchanged. The emotion may still be present. But the identity has been unhooked.
And that unhooking is freedom.
It allows us to act without being hijacked. To speak without being scorched by our own heat. To respond rather than react. Not because we are better people, but because we are standing in a deeper place.
Remembering Where You Already Are
The irony is that this deeper place is not exotic or rare. It is always already here. Like water to a fish. Like silence beneath sound. Like the screen on which every movie of our inner life is projected.
We lose access to it not because it leaves, but because we forget to look from there.
So the next time anger arrives, and it will, you might experiment with a gentler question. Not “Why am I like this?” Not “How do I get rid of this?” But simply:
Where am I standing right now?
Am I collapsed into the emotion, or am I aware of it?
Am I angry, or am I just being angry?
The clouds will keep moving.
The weather will keep changing.
The water will keep holding you.
You do not have to become something else.
You only have to remember where you already are.
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Now you’ve stopped preaching and gone to meddling. 🧐
For me, the practice of replacing “am” with “feel” helps me home the feeling without surrendering to it. “I feel angry” lands differently than “I am angry.” It’s about agency, I think.
"Anger is a tool. Are you using it, or is it using you?"--Street