Committed to a Masterpiece Day, every day.
I’m ok, although my spirit was a little bruised. I've always been a fighter but not in the literal sense. I've battled life's hardest of challenges and yet none of them felt quite the same as being in the ring facing a real opponent, throwing punches and kicks to win.
I started kickboxing a month or so ago. To get in better shape I decided to knock the smoking habit (three weeks strong!) and ditch the greasy cheeseburgers thinking I would get back to my old self. I can honestly say I totally underestimated the world of kickboxing. It's been a battle on multiple fronts, not just giving up the junk and fags, very importantly it has been about coming to terms with the fact that I'm no longer 21. Who knew that getting older came with a side of reality check?
I’ve always deemed myself “fit”. I was an associate of the Royal Ballet School, danced 5 days a week 3 hours a day - intensely! Why shouldn’t I still be able to do the splits, pirouette, jété across the floor and barely break a sweat even though the last time I stepped into a studio or on a stage was over 18 years ago?!
I know, it’s totally irrational. Over the years I’ve given my body a hard time. Tearing shapes in the carpet most weekends, having knocked back more alcohol than Eddie Monsoon and Patsy Stone combined (prior to popping out 3 kids) and thereafter having my cortisol levels spiked daily for 10 years in an unhappy marriage - smoking like an ambassador for Marlboro, not to mention being hit by a car and an embracing a prolapsed disc as a souvenir!
Why wouldn’t I still be the limber, flexible gazelle I once was?
Back to the ring. I strolled in, thinking it would be a light sparring match. Little did I know, my opponents were all smiles and jokes until we got into the thick of it. It wasn't a tickling contest, believe me. Each punch and kick landed with a vengeance. All eyes were on us – families in the gallery, fellow fighters, and even my inner critic, armed with a megaphone.
‘It is not the critic who counts; not the person who points out how that strong person stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the person who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust, sweat and blood; ...'
My first match was like a whirlwind. I was out of my depth, and frankly, I was relieved when it got stopped. My opponent was packing a punch, and I felt like a fish out of water. But that was just the beginning.
The second was even more intense. I was giving it my all, but my lungs were staging a protest, and my back decided to join the rebellion. Every kick felt like lifting a truck, and let's not talk about brain fog when someone is supercharged and coming at you.
I took my fair share of hits, but then came the one that knocked the wind out of me – literally. Gasping for air, I called for a time out. Frustration and the overwhelming feeling of defeat washed over me. I could feel my eyes welling up and I quietly retreated, tail between my legs, feeling like a lost and wounded puppy. And if that wasn't enough, cue the full-blown panic attack – because why not?
Like a bonus round of misery I had to escape to the corridor as tears streamed down my face. Pathetic, I know, but I didn't want anyone to witness my epic unravelling.
After what felt like an eternity of whirlwind emotions - humiliation, naiveté, disappointment, and the ever-present 'I feel like a total loser - has been' I managed to regain my composure and walked back in. Thankfully, the session ended with a cool-down and bow-out.
I sobbed the majority of the way home, I couldn't shake my inner critic. I woke up with the same negative thoughts, convinced that the world was laughing at me.
That morning as I headed to my chiropractor, it hit me like a roundhouse kick to the face. What I did was a major achievement. I've spent many years caring too much about what others think, and it's held me back. Stepping into that ring, regardless of the outcome, was a big deal. It was about conquering my fears, facing public failure, and not giving a shit about judgment.
In the wise words of Theodore Roosevelt;
It is not the critic who counts; not the person who points out how that strong person stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the person who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust, sweat and blood; ...'
I reminded myself that kickboxing wasn't about winning medals; it was about challenging my limits, pushing boundaries, and gaining confidence.
So, yes, my arse got kicked, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I didn't join this club for an easy ride. I'm here to learn, to grow, and to keep pushing my limits. Because, as Ray Dalio wisely said, 'If you're not failing, you're not maximising your potential.'
P.s This picture above is my amazing trainer Joe Brooks, NOT the person who kicked my arse, I will be dealing with her in the ring in due course. And while sometimes we may not win, we always learn how to return and fight to win the next time!
A huge personal thank you to the family at https://www.pmakickboxing.com/ what you have created speaks to your values, discipline and sense of family. Special thank you to Elisa Brooks for all your help and support on Sunday!
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