Just to share the English version of my old article.
Anger, as a core emotion, represents a weighty form of “inner work,” whether in clinical practice or in daily life. Regardless of whether it is our own resentment or facing the fire of others, it brings not only physical discomfort but often triggers a cascade of layered emotions—such as shock, fear, guilt, and shame. These layers lead many to feel they should not be angry, making them unwilling to approach the feeling of anger and causing them to expend even more effort resisting it. At times, our aversion to, repression of, and unfamiliarity with anger actually allow impulses to overflow, resulting in more regret and remorse.
To anger well is a form of personal cultivation, a healing of the past, a confrontation with injustice, and a return to the essence of existence.
Emotional theories posit that each core emotion has a distinct adaptive function. The purpose of anger stems from the fact that the people and things we love and value—ranging from concrete objects to abstract values, dignity, freedom, and a sense of security—have been subjected to actual or perceived attack, threat, oppression, or unfair treatment. Anger is intended to protect. It provides a powerful message, reminding us that boundaries are being violated, needs are going unmet, or what we cherish is being harmed or abandoned.
Perhaps counterintuitively, much ancient wisdom actually teaches us how to be with anger, rather than how to avoid or suppress it.
The True Location of Anger
Duke Ai asked which of the disciples loved to learn. Confucius replied, “There was Yan Hui who loved to learn. He did not transfer his anger, and he did not repeat a mistake. Unfortunately, his appointed time was short and he died. Now there is no one like him; I have not yet heard of anyone who loves to learn as he did.” — The Analects, “Yong Ye” chapter.
Confucius describes Yan Hui as one who “did not transfer his anger,” meaning that his anger was not directed toward others or places; he did not practice the displacement of anger. Within the context of “loving learning,” this can be understood as refraining from blaming unrelated parties for one’s frustrations. Only by bravely taking responsibility for mistakes and making changes can one truly “not repeat a mistake.” Interestingly, Confucius’s concept of “not transferring anger” resonates with the defense mechanisms of psychoanalytic theory. Anger should go where it belongs, rather than being projected or displaced.
Additionally, Confucius did not ask people to endure anything unreasonable or contrary to ritual propriety (Li). Reading the Ba Yi chapter of the Analects closely, Confucius’s anger is visible everywhere. He encouraged Ran You to stand up and say no; toward the inappropriate behavior of rulers, he was at times sarcastic and at others bluntly critical, showing no restraint.
The chief of the Ji family was about to sacrifice to the Tai mountain. The Master said to Ran You, "Can you not save him from this?" He answered, "I cannot." Confucius said, "Alas! will you say that the Tai mountain is not so discerning as Lin Fang?" — The Analects, “Ba Yi” chapter.
Confucius said of the head of the Ji family, who had eight rows of pantomimes in his area, “if this can be endured, what cannot be endured?” — The Analects, “Ba Yi” chapter.
Confucius remarked that the Ji family used the dance formation reserved for the supreme ruler in their own courtyard; if such an act could be tolerated, what then could not be tolerated? Here, Confucius clearly marks the purpose of anger as protecting boundaries. The “man-eating” traditional ethics (Lijiao) were the product of later power-holders who, for the convenience of their reign, distorted or cherry-picked ancient philosophy. Generation after generation, this has shaped our internalized collective trauma, in which avoidance is mistaken for politeness and denial is used to soothe wounds—causing us, generation after generation, to miss the chance for authentic love.
The Arising and Passing of Anger
Turning inward, Buddhism illuminates the finiteness of our internal emotions. In the sutras, anger is frequently characterized as “ill-will” (Vyapada).
“There being ill-will in him, a monk knows: ‘There is ill-will in me.’ There being no ill-will in him, he knows: ‘There is no ill-will in me.’ He also knows how there comes to be the arising of unarisen ill-will, how there comes to be the abandoning of arisen ill-will, and how there comes to be the future non-arising of abandoned ill-will. — Maha-Satipatthana Sutta, Dhammānupassanā, Nīvaraṇa.
Observing the arising and passing of “ill-will” reminds us that even such an intense emotion has a beginning and an end. It surfaces, and it fades. Anger is like a cloud in the sky—it can gather, and it can disperse; it is like a breath—there is an inhalation and an exhalation. Anger is like climbing a mountain; that ridgeline always has a starting point and an exit. Many people fear anger as if, once touched, they can never be rid of it; that is fear obscuring “knowing.” To be mindful of the presence or absence of anger—neither forcing it nor fleeing from it—is to coexist with it, allowing “ill-will” to complete itself as a phase. This process is often referred to in psychotherapy as emotion processing.
The Fluid Nature of Anger
The Chinese medical classic Huangdi Neijing (The Yellow Emperor's Inner Canon) describes the flow and interaction among the body, emotions, and nature, emphasizing the generating-and-overcoming cycles among the elements. This dynamic nature of emotion provides the very foundation for emotional healing.
The Emperor said: “I have heard that the ancient sages, in discussing the physical form of man, distinguished the viscera and bowels, defined the meridians, and harmonized the ‘Six Unions.’ Each follows its own channel... the responses between the external and internal are reflected in the surface and the core. Is this indeed so?”
Qi Bo replied: “The East generates Wind; Wind generates Wood... Wood generates the sour taste; the sour generates the Liver; the Liver generates the tendons... In the mind, it is Anger. Anger injures the Liver, but Grief overcomes Anger. ...The South generates Heat; Heat generates Fire... In the mind, it is Joy. Joy injures the Heart, but Fear overcomes Joy. ...The Center generates Dampness; Dampness generates Earth... In the mind, it is Pensiveness. Pensiveness injures the Spleen, but Anger overcomes Pensiveness. ...The West generates Dryness; Dryness generates Metal... In the mind, it is Grief. Grief injures the Lungs, but Joy overcomes Grief. ...The North generates Cold; Cold generates Water... In the mind, it is Fear. Fear injures the Kidneys, but Pensiveness overcomes Fear.” — Huangdi Neijing, Suwen, Chapter 7: “Great Discourse on the Phenomenal Correspondences of Yin and Yang.”
Specifically, the phrase “Anger injures the Liver” signifies that anger affects the liver and that the two are mutually expressive. Based on the theory of the Five Elements (Wu Xing), the Wood element is linked to spring, the liver, anger, wind in the climate, and tendons in the body. Their interaction reflects a dynamic equilibrium between the internal and the external; “Anger injures the Liver” precisely captures this elemental interconnectedness. The liver is also responsible for dredging and dispersing, meaning that when anger arrives, it must be expressed—much like the smooth transition of the four seasons. To go against the seasons is to invite illness; anger, when orderly and measured, should be allowed to flow according to its natural tendency.
The aforementioned “Grief overcomes Anger” does not encourage replacing anger with sorrow. Rather, it suggests a mutual restraint and tension between these two forces. The Huangdi Neijing observes the ebb and flow, and the tensions among emotions, suggesting that release and “digestion” are key to balance; blind suppression leads to blockages across all aspects.
In contemporary psychotherapy, we often observe that after a person fully experiences their grief, a deep, powerful anger immediately follows. That “disallowed” anger is indeed often buried under layers of sorrow and shame. Only by melting the grief can one experience the transformative power of anger.
Anger with Deliberation
The Book of Proverbs in the Old Testament repeatedly cautions against being easily provoked to anger.
“A quick-tempered person acts foolishly, and a person of evil devices is hated.” — Proverbs 14:17.
“Whoever is slow to anger has great understanding, but one who has a hasty temper exalts folly.” — Proverbs 14:29.
“Better a patient person than a warrior, one with self-control than one who takes a city.” — Proverbs 16:32.
“A person’s wisdom yields patience; it is to one’s glory to overlook an offense.” —Proverbs 19:11.
Where the Chinese text says “not easily becoming angry,” the English versions use terms such as “quick-tempered,” “quick to anger,” or “slow to anger.” Proverbs admonishes us to be slow to anger, to anger well, to anger with weight and deliberation. The existence of anger is vital, but the sense of urgency within that anger must be tempered; one should not be easily agitated. Only by slowing down can we discern what our anger is trying to say and the actions it is prompting us to take.
The Old Testament frequently mentions the wrath of God, yet it always stems from a clear cause; the emotion is never groundless. God issues repeated warnings before His anger is unleashed, with the aim of calling people to turn back and change, making the functional significance of the emotion self-evident.
“The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love.” — Psalms 103:8.
The Book of Psalms also mentions that God is “slow to anger.” In the original Hebrew, this phrase—אֶרֶךְ אַפַּיִם (’erekh ’appayim)—literally translates to “long of nose.” God has a very long nose, signifying that He is slow to move toward wrath. It is my own interpretation that this Hebrew imagery—God’s long nose—is exceptionally vivid. A long nose makes the process of inhalation and exhalation more distant and deliberate. This cycle of breathing solidifies the experience of anger, slowing the resentment down so that the wrath does not erupt impulsively. In psychotherapy, breathing is the most effective method for anchoring anger. God’s “long nose” may serve as a reminder of the centrality of breath to the process of anger.
Many ancient classics emphasize the importance of getting in touch with anger and how to “digest” it: Confucius encourages us to face anger directly; the Buddhist sutras provide meticulous observations of the arising and passing of emotions; the Huangdi Neijing teaches us to flow with the natural momentum of the body, emotions, and elemental cycles; and the God of the “long nose” in Christianity perhaps suggests using our breath to slow our anger down.
Our tendency to suppress rage, resist emotional experience, or deny its existence is, in itself, an opening—an opportunity to decipher the architecture of cultural trauma. By rereading the cultural classics that have been misappropriated or hollowed out, and by mourning the dignity sacrificed for the sake of survival, we transform anger from a burden into a path toward healing. To face and fully experience this anger is to awaken a dormant individual and collective strength. It allows us to trace the lineage of our pain, giving voice to the neglected while challenging the artificial injustices and inequalities of our world. 1
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1 Original text written in Chinese by the author; translated and adapted by the same.