The Somatic Menu: Why We Added the Rage Room to the Healing Feast

The first time I went to a rage room, I went for the experience—just to see what it was. It sounded like such a thing, you know?

I went with friends, and it was fun. But going with that specific group brought up some curiosity about what I was really looking for. At the time, I didn’t have much of a BIPOC community. I had found safety, camaraderie, and allyship in my melanin-limited sisters, but the rage I experienced in my nervous system—and how I expressed it—felt limited. There was a mismatch of energy and comfortability.

I was curious if there was something deeper I could get from the experience. The second time, I went with friends again. There was more of an opening for some of the people I was with, but still not enough of an opening for me to really feel the unbridled rage I knew was sitting in my system.

Then came the summer of 2025.

I made a decision to go to the rage room completely by myself after a devastating rupture and subsequent transition.

When Glass Shatters and Paint Drips

The way I booked it, I had access to a room with a medium-sized TV I could destroy, along with glass I could throw across the room and watch shatter. If you’ve never seen that, let me tell you: there is nothing more cathartic than watching glass shatter against a concrete wall when you are in control, and that control is the exact reason you are there.

I spent time there, and then I transitioned to the paint room. I still had some rage, but it quickly turned to sadness. It wasn’t about the music I was playing—though you can play whatever you want in those spaces. It was just watching the paint drip. Connecting with that water element. Connecting with the fluidity, connecting with the stains left by the paint. It was deeply emotional. I found myself crying so much.

At the end, the experience transitioned to the demolition of a pre-demolished car. I channeled the last ounces of rage I had access to at that moment. I vividly remember taking the bat to the engine cover. I took pieces of glass and ceramic, placed them on the hood, and just kept smashing them to bits until it was pulverized. Unrecognizable.

I was sweating. I was in distress. But it was so necessary.

Having that level of rage sitting in my nervous system wasn't serving anyone. I was so angry. Disappointed. Devastated. Confused. Nothing made sense. And I didn't have an outlet that didn't come with conditions—conditions that would inadvertently impact the expression of my rage. I couldn't find a person, place, or thing to hold it.

So the rage room became that person, that place, that thing. A safe space where all that unbridled rage could pour out of my pores. I needed to get physical. For several days after, I didn’t feel the tension of wanting to clap back at every white person I saw, and my PTSD symptoms quieted down. It didn’t mean they never came back, but the relief was real.

Moving the Secondary Emotion

There are alternative ways to do this, of course. We can get creative. Taking things to the garbage dump knocks out two things at once—you get to throw, stomp, and trash things, but it’s contained because you’re being witnessed by strangers. There are exercise activities too, but if you're trying to do this a few times, a gym membership might not be the best tool.

Sometimes, you just need an opportunity to see your rage in its fullest form.

Some people are scared of their rage. That makes a lot of sense. We grew up in a society where many of us have been robbed of the experience of rage. One of the most affirming books I’ve ever read on this is Rage Becomes Her by Soraya Chemaly. It is a heady book, but deeply validating for people of color, people born female, transgender individuals, and marginalized men. It’s also a necessary read for white people who might be missing the boat on how they show up in ways that uphold a status quo—suggesting their anger or experience is more important than another’s. Intentional or not, the impact is long-lasting.

This past May, I went back to the rage room, and I was even more intentional. I landed my experience by sandwiching it with somatic practice. We made art, danced, and invoked intentions. My grief and sadness were witnessed and held by others. It added another layer—one that didn't feel rageful, but felt like profound sorrow.

I don’t know how accessible that profound sorrow would have been had I not gone to the rage room first. Rage is a secondary emotion. Usually, underneath it live very vulnerable emotions. When rage isn't moved, the manifestation of those vulnerable emotions can look like a myriad of heavy things, and we don't always show up in our best light.

Dismantling the Barriers to Healing

The rage room isn't for everyone, but it is a vital option on our somatic menu.

The reality is that many people don't even know these spaces exist. And separately, there are financial limitations. We are witnessing gas prices, food costs, and resources skyrocket. The idea that someone would have to choose between a rage room or groceries for the week is just not okay.

To bridge this gap, I founded the Somatic Release & Community Care Initiative (SRCCI) as a state-incorporated Domestic Nonprofit Corporation. Through SRCCI, I offer Clinical Somatic Sponsorships—a dignity-first voucher system that allows primarily BIPOC Oregonians, while intentionally centering and respecting the intersecting needs of the LGBTQIA2S+ community, to access partner venues like Smash PDX completely free of charge.

I maintain a strict Liability Firewall: I handle all clinical screenings, trauma-informed intakes, and post-session grounding off-site through my private practice, BLKJADE. Mental Wellness, LLC.. When community members enter these spaces using our discreet vouchers, they do so entirely free of clinical labels or case notes. Inside the venue, they are never "patients" or "clients"—they are strictly autonomous guests exercising their birthright to heal and release.

Our goal is to create accessibility and remove the financial barrier so people can experience and move their rage. The whole point of a somatic menu is to find what fits you. We will be bringing more offerings soon—including specialized somatic tattooing and our multilayered complicated grief workshop series, Onwuama—but right now, we want to ensure this high-velocity discharge tool is available.

If we want to invite a different experience for folks, we have to do the work to dismantle internalized oppression, white supremacy, patriarchy, and misogyny. We have to challenge the hegemony. This isn't just about focusing on power; it's about creating space for people—and spaceholders—to learn more about themselves.

Through that deepening, through shared power and shared space, we find what love actually looks like. That is what we are in pursuit of: a love that encompasses all people, embraces them, and holds them tenderly. One of the biggest threats to that work is the division of power. Love cannot be separated from how power, control, and dominance operate in this culture.

This is an opportunity to hold space for ourselves, to experience our power, and to deepen our awareness of self—whether it’s something you need to do regularly throughout a season, or a one-and-done situation. Either way, it needs to be accessible. And that is exactly why it has a permanent place on our menu.