Anger.

Three footsteps. Three fast, loud, shuffling footsteps running up behind me. Next thing I knew, I was on my back in the snow, staring up into the colorful glow of holiday lights while some guy held me down and stuck his hand up my shirt. I yelled. He ran. I yelled more. He stopped. We stared at each other. I yelled again. He ran into the shadows.

That’s the short version. The assault happened this past December. I haven’t kept it a secret—I’d have loved to see the bastard get caught. Unfortunately, no such luck.

After the incident, I received kind, meaningful, supportive, loving messages from so many acquaintances, friends, colleagues, and family members. Understandably, I was overwhelmingly asked how I was feeling. At the time, I was numb. I didn’t have a good answer.

But now…months later, I do: Angry.

I am angry I no longer walk alone at night, which has always been the best time to collect my thoughts. I am angry I have to be careful when I dig my deodorant out of my purse for fear of accidentally setting off the pink-dye pepper spray I now carry. I am angry I can’t hear the sound of a runner behind me without my stomach flipping and my breath catching.

This anger doesn’t take over my life, by any means. I am still me. But I am still angry.

With that being said, let’s skip ahead to this past May.

A while ago, my wonderful coworkers and I signed up to run the Ragnar Zion trail race. The race is done as an eight-person relay team. The team receives a staggered start time based on predicted speed, and start times are so effective that runners feel fairly isolated while on the course. Once the first runner (yours truly, in this case) begins, the team runners have approximately twenty-four hours in which to finish three trail loops apiece. Everyone runs an easy loop, a medium loop, and a hard loop, though the order differs for each runner. Together, the three loops total approximately fifteen miles. One runner from each team is on the course at a time, and each runner completes at least one loop by the light of the moon.

And so, as the clock struck 9:35 pm and the sun set over Zion National Park, armed with a headlamp, a hand light, a glow stick, and my trusty music maker n’ headphones, I set off on my second and most difficult loop of the race. Two of my teammates had completed the hard loop earlier in the day, and had returned with nothing but horror stories of its omnipresent challenges, as well as the potential perils it would bring after nightfall. I had been warned about deep ruts in the two-track roads, cacti lining the sides of narrow areas of trail, cliffs I might wander over, and—most bizarrely—that the hard loop only presented uphill climbs with no downhill relief. Thankfully, this last one turned out to be a bit of an exaggeration.

Though these warnings were worrisome, I realized about ten minutes into my run that they were not what provided me the most anxiety. Suddenly, as the noise of camp faded into the distance and only hills climbing into infinite darkness lay before me, my mind wandered back to that December night. I tried to mentally swat the uncertainty away, but I kept picturing someone waiting just out of sight. I kept hearing footsteps in the distance, and questioning if they were trustworthy. I kept wondering what on earth I would do if I inexplicably found myself helpless once again.

And as these feelings marinated while I neared the top of the hard loop’s initial series of increasingly painful hills, I welcomed a familiar, hot flash of anger. An anger that did not combat me. An anger that did not conflict me. An anger that did not control me.

Instead, this was an anger that inspired me. I literally took my anger and ran with it. I realized that in this moment, given the spirit and community of the race, I was free. And instead of feeling worry, I turned my music up a little louder, looked up at the nearly full moon and the absolutely glorious number of stars glowing in the endless sky, and I smiled a huge, shit-eating grin. For the first time in what seemed like forever, I allowed myself to experience the peaceful power associated with exploring the vast mystery of night alone. I then finished the loop in a personal best trail time…not that winning or time are the most important things here, but gotta brag where I can!

But if bragging about my freaking awesome team taking third place in our division and winning kick ass belt buckle bottle openers isn’t the point of this post, then what is?!

Well…I think my point is that with all the nuttiness going on in the world right now, it’s almost too easy to be overwhelmed by anger. Or, on the flip side, it is easy to feel so disconnected from the actions of our “leaders” that when it comes to anger, we don’t have enough. I’ve reacted both ways. And both reactions have strong potential to lead to paralysis.

But anger, when used under the proper circumstances, is not a character flaw. It is a catalyst.

Responsible, appropriately placed anger leads to action. Responsible, appropriately placed action leads to change—however incremental. And finding a balance of anger and action is hard. But, to quote a movie quoted in the recent speech of an inspiring woman (quote-ception??), “It’s supposed to be hard. The hard is what makes it great.”

So don’t hold back on anger. Don’t ever deny feeling. It’s part of being human. Instead, take that anger to whatever hard loop presents itself. Then, acknowledge that anger. Harness it.

And use its power to light the darkness ahead.