Boxing

I’ve been taking boxing classes lately. It is something that I have wanted to try for a long time, but never really got around to because I managed to convince myself that it was out of character.

But the truth is it isn’t out of character…it just is (or was) outside of my comfort zone.

Most of my life I didn’t have much interest in sports. In my mid-twenties I found my way to yoga and was very devoted to my practice for many years. I loved the knowledge yoga gave me about my body. I loved the feeling of reaching a whole different understanding of a particular pose, that quiet moment when your body releases in an entirely different way, or when you realize the effortlessness of balance or how strength and flexibility complement each other perfectly.

I practiced yoga almost daily right up until I went into labor with Ez. And I truly believe that my yoga practice prepared me for the challenges that arrived with the birth of my daughter…because as the terror descended on me in the hours, days, and months following Esmé’s birth I was able to breathe.

But after Esmé was born I couldn’t return to my yoga mat. I tried a few times. But the things that I found inside myself during these practices were too raw, too angry, too sad for me to deal with in that way. After I left a few classes in tears, I had to admit that the peace and power I used to find in yoga wasn’t for this me, as she was, as she is.

So I started trying things…all kinds of things I said I’d never do. Like running, which I always thought looked like a really bad idea. On multiple occasions I’d proclaimed that I’d “run when there is something’s chasing me…like a lion.” But I started running anyway because it was something different. And funny thing? I liked it. But also? I did feel like something was chasing me. The thing that was chasing me was the same thing I couldn’t face in yoga.

Now, I don’t want any of you getting the idea that I run very fast or very far…but I can say that no matter how fast I ran, that thing was there nipping at my heels…that part that was too raw, too angry, too sad. And I’d find myself having to stop, not because my body was too tired to run anymore (although, probably that too), but because I couldn’t stand the feeling of what was chasing me. Maybe if I could run far enough or fast enough I might have been able to outrun it, but it seemed unlikely.

So, a couple of months ago, I decided it was time to turn around, lift up my fists, and face that part of myself I have been running from. Once I looked right at it I could see it so clearly: I am so raw and angry and sad because I feel completely powerless. I feel powerless over the way things have gone, and over the way they will go. I feel powerless to protect my child, to keep her safe from pain.

Hell, many days I feel completely powerless to get the most basic things done.

And I thought maybe, just maybe, boxing might help with that.

Now, I am not a person who is comfortable with violence, I am not a person who would like to think that an appropriate way to deal with my emotions should be hitting things with my fists…but I will say that when I wrap up my hands and stick them in those gloves, I feel just a bit less powerless. And all of the burpees, push-ups, planks, and jumping jacks in between combinations on the bags, don’t leave my brain any room to worry about what might be chasing me. After just a few weeks I can feel the difference in my body and my mind.

And while I’m pretty awkward at the whole thing still, every once in a while, when I land a few punches in the mitts, getting my hips behind them, I recognize how strong I am…how strong I am going to be.