If you know me it may have crossed your mind once or twice that “Scrappy” is an awkward name (borderline antonym) for a sensitive and gentle type of gal. I’m an incessant door locker, I look for exits upon entering a room in case I need to flee like Jason Bourne, and I suffer from mild anxiety at well, just about everything. I’m also tall, long limbed (AKA gangly), and struggle to put muscle on my frame. If I ever appeared confident, I was probably faking it.
When I initially picked Scrappy as a moniker it was because I had been through a few tough rounds in the ring of life–lot’s of getting knocked down and getting back up again. Scrappy was simply metaphor for my life, not a narrative.
I was very intentional with the verbiage on my blog, lest no one think I was actually “physically” tough, because let’s be honest. I was a bit of a wuss..
Eight years later, things have changed.
A little over a year ago my dearest friend made me go with her to 9Round Kickboxing Studio to check it out and do a free workout. I was a little leery, but figured, “what the heck?”
That night I came home a dripping sweaty mess. The next day I could barely move but I was hooked. I couldn’t stop thinking about kickboxing.
I liked hitting. Me…WE are talking about me! This wussy girl liked smacking things. Maybe I was missing something in my life? Maybe there was an angry elf in me after all who wanted some recognition?
I begged my husband for a membership so he bought me two months for Mother’s Day. I begged more, pleaded and prayed and thankfully negotiated a great deal. Finally, I was in! I was going to do this scary tough thing!
Fifteen months later, this is what I’ve learned from kickboxing:
When I put on my gloves I am not a gentle woman. I am fierce.
I found a hidden place within my spirit that is strong. I am an athlete. I am a warrior. I am a force to be reckoned with and even in my mid-forties, I can still bring it. Empowerment is an intoxicating thing. I walk taller, my core engages in my every movement, and my body rests easier because it has worked hard.
When I put on my gloves I leave my worries behind.
Sometimes I picture my problems with faces on them as I’m punching the bags or sparring. I pray, yes…I sometimes kick my trainer on purpose, and I pummel. Quite frankly I get a thrill out of beating out my issues physically. That little b!tch, of a problem goes down in a steady trickle of sweat and aggression on the mat.
When I put on my gloves I put off excuses.
One early morn the gym was freezing cold and I complained to my hard-as-nails ex Marine trainer. Bad idea Sam. Bad idea. That day, I learned what it was like to get warm in 33 degrees real quick. I also learned that it can always be worse. When I box, there is no room for complaints or whining. Whatever I’ve got, I leave it on the table. I am currently rehabbing my torn my rotator cuff and labrum on my left shoulder, and although my arms have sadly shrunk, it hasn’t stopped me from boxing with my right arm. I do one arm burpees, planks and mountain climbers. I bear crawl with one arm. I fight with the two good legs and the one good arm I have. Why? Because it could always be worse.
When I put on my gloves, I let go of my vanity.
I’ve always been the girl who put on a little mascara, tied a perky bow on my ponytail and donned a cute workout outfit to go to the gym. It’s just how my mama raised me. I figured it was bad enough getting sweaty and disheveled in front of all those mirrors, I don’t need to run into someone looking like hell on top of it.
Mom forgive me, but YEAH, my thinking has changed. I now put on clothes that are protective, comfortable and cover my parts when I’m boxing, squatting, jumping, kicking and doing my 100th burpee. It’s a paradigm shift of massive proportions for a chronically self-conscious person. I don’t show off my curves when I workout but I will show off all my latest bruises. I have lots of those.
Before, my goal with working out was pretty shallow–either lose a few pounds or maintain my weight. It was never really about true health. That’s changed. I have to eat healthy to fuel my body for workouts. A glass of wine and a protein bar aren’t going to cut it for dinner.
Surprise, surprise. I’ve actually gained weight! Gasp! Shock! This might have sent me into a hysterical Slim Fast panic in the past, but I’m now accepting this stronger person’s body. Yes, my jeans are actually loose but I weigh more. I put on muscle and its OK. I am healthy and it’s ENOUGH.
(That’s like 45 years of therapy right there alone)
When I put on my gloves, I recognize life is more like 9 Rounds then we give it credit for.
There are endurance rounds where I endlessly jump rope and feel like a sprite bouncing on a cloud of marshmallows and then there are the brutal rounds where I chum in my mouth and cuss under my breath and cry at the trainers until exhaustion. Sometimes I get the wind knocked out of me and sometimes I go down in a heap, but I trust that God (and family and friends) are ALWAYS in my corner calling out and whispering to me to get back up again and fight this battle.
No one really blows it in the ring, (except for the lady who came to the gym drunk and got kicked out. OK…maybe she blew it, but not you! You wouldn’t do that)
The only way to fail in this workout is to not show up. Life is like that too. You just need to show up, be present and put on your gloves. (And drink water not gin before you workout, that helps too.)
Need Some Motivation? Consider the underdog.
There is a video on Twitter I love to watch over and over…
It’s about a small chihuahua that can dance. Seriously, the dog has moves. The thing I adore about this video is that’s it’s so UNEXPECTED.
Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but this dog says to me, “Don’t let anyone tell you can’t do something! You say dog’s don’t have moves. I say watch me groove, cholo.”
What makes an underdog story good is that it starts with a faulty belief system. The protagonist lack confidence until circumstances force them to find inner strength. They overcome an obstacle to destroy the lie (or bad guy) and live in the truth.
I relate to the underdog. I used to believe lies about my physical strength. I told myself, “I’m not tough. I don’t fight back. I allow people to get to my heart. I’m too sensitive.”
But kickboxing is changing that for me. I might still cry while I’m punching you, because, after all, I am tender-hearted, but I bet you won’t see it coming.
If you have believed lies about your strength, or about who you are, maybe you need to rock the boat too and get out of your comfort zone? Maybe it’s Kickboxing or Crossfit or whatever pushes you past your perceived limits. Just do something a little crazy. Turn off the Netflix, drag your butt off the sofa, text a friend who’s willing to try new $h1t and get out there!
Confront that inner wuss and send it packing!
Truth? The dog can dance and you are stronger than you think.
I didn’t know when I picked the name “Scrappy” I would discover a fighter. Not just a metaphorical fighter who gets shoved aside and wearily marches on, but a real fighter who isn’t afraid of being bold and delivering a crushing blow.
Keep your gloves up!
–Samantha
the only video that matters pic.twitter.com/TFsAoJb6FF
— Hispanic Probs (@HISPANlCPROBS) March 26, 2018
