I fancy myself a non-violent/yogic/Buddhist personality—or at least someone trying to increase her non-violent/yogic/Buddhist tendencies. I meditate daily. I’ve marched for peace, written anti-war protests. I grew up deeply respectful of the Quaker faith. I grew up hearing the words ‘conflict resolution’ on a regular basis. I remain horrified that Zac’s parents encouraged him as a child to hit a tree with a baseball bat when he was angry—how could anyone hit a tree?
And suddenly, I find myself boxing—a sport I would have decried as violent just months ago. I find myself paying membership to a boxing gym. I find myself saying, ‘my boxing coaches’ in conversation with friends. I find myself reading Mike Tyson’s Wikipedia page, googling articles about Mikaela Mayer, watching YouTube fights, imagining myself being hit in the face.
I find myself loving the feel of my black hand wraps, how gloves fit over my fists. Loving the feel of the punching bag when I hit it just right. Loving the hook. Loving the upper cut. How I turn my body. How I try to throw my weight into it. Loving the sound the jump rope makes. Loving the weight of medicine balls.
Loving the boxing gym’s teamwork, how we count stretches out loud together, how we help one another into our gloves, how we shout encouragement.
How good it feels—empowering—to learn how to hit. To punch some shit. To concentrate on my body’s movement through space. To feel my body as strong, capable, able to act and react.
How when class ends, I feel released. The stress of the day slipped away, anxiety, sadness. I leave the gym with a quietness. How unexpected that is: to punch some shit and find some peace.
Planet of the Blind 