Rage, Betrayal, and the Art of Choosing Myself

Rage is a dark, unforgiving visitor. It doesn’t wait to be invited — it crashes in, filling you with fire and bitterness, feeding off every last shred of hope you didn’t even know you had. This was a rage I didn’t see coming.

One day, he was there, promising forever. By Wednesday, we were talking about marriage. By Thursday, he was in tears, telling me how deeply he loved me. Then Friday came, and he vanished. No warning, no goodbye — just silence, a sudden erasure as if I’d never existed in his life. And on Saturday? He was out laughing with his friends, his day filled with light, as if what we’d shared had been nothing more than a shadow he could step over. He blocked me without hesitation, and she—his ex, the one he’d sworn was long gone—was back, leaving heart-shaped comments under his photos, her presence like a stamp of ownership where mine once was.

And yet, every day, he’s still watching my stories. Two weeks straight now, every post, even liking some. Does she know? Does she know he’s still there, lurking on my page, leaving empty trails of interest in my life? Does she know he’s written me letters — letters I’ll probably never read because his words mean nothing after everything he’s done? He even changed his Instagram name to match hers, a public display of “love” to show how devoted he is. But his actions, his betrayals, are what stay with me, twisting real love into something tainted, something rotten.

In the first waves of anger, I thought about writing her, reaching out to tell her the truth of who he is. But I won’t. This isn’t the woman I am, and she’ll learn it on her own, the way I did.

Betrayal leaves a bitterness that can almost drown you. It wasn’t that I wanted him back, but I wanted back the truth I thought we’d shared. Instead, I was left with a rage so large, I felt I had the right to take every piece of him, to destroy the pedestal I’d put him on, to tear down every part of him that had touched me. Rage told me I could take it all back, piece by broken piece.

He once told me, “Not everyone deserves your kindness,” ironic words from a man hiding behind masks and empty promises. He wanted to be a motivational speaker, to teach others how to be a “good man.” The hypocrisy was almost laughable if it weren’t so personal.

And when the lies finally clicked into place, the rage grew — not because I wanted him back, but because he took something sacred from me: my trust in people, in the goodness I’d always believed in. I had always seen light first, trusted with open hands, believed in words that meant something real.

After this, what do words even mean?

I could have let that fury consume me, hardened me. But I knew that holding onto rage only burns you first. So I set it down, let it fade, and in its place, found something truer: strength. Not a strength that shuts down, but one that stays soft and open, even with scars.

I’ve learned to recognize the red flags, to set boundaries where they’re needed. I won’t make excuses for cruelty or dishonesty anymore. I know now some people wear masks so easily that forever can slip from their lips with one hand crossed behind their back.

But despite everything, I choose not to let this close me off. I’ll keep my softness, my light, my hope, but I’ll guard them fiercely. I’ll protect the kindness in me that he tried to destroy.

So here I am, stronger than before — not because of him, but despite him. I’m reclaiming my story, letting this rage fall to ashes behind me. This is my ending to his betrayal, no longer a prisoner of his deceit, no longer bound to a memory he tried to twist into darkness. I walk forward now, knowing my worth, ready to love again—but this time, with eyes wide open and a heart that knows how to protect itself.

What does it take to turn rage into resilience, rather than revenge? How do you deal with situations like this where you feel rage? Leave a comment 🖤