Lessons from the Ring #2: What the London Southpaw Taught me about Strength

This article is part of a series reflecting on my values and how they continue to shape the decisions I make as a person, mother, friend, colleague, leader.

Today’s topic is the second lesson I learned from my time as an amateur boxer. And specifically, a bout in London where I had to find out just how strong I really was, by leaning on the kinds of strength that I had learned from my parents.

On that night, we drove down from Oxford to a boxing club in east London. My best friend was also competing. Immediately upon arrival, we could see (and hear) this was going to be a rowdy crowd.

After weigh-in, I step into the ring against what is called a “Southpaw”. In boxing, this?means someone left-handed, who actually leads with their right hand – the weaker one – for jabbing, while reserving the left hand – the stronger one – for the higher impact left cross, i.e., “the big punch”.?

If you’re right-handed, and most of your training is against like opponents, then you learn how to defend yourself based on where their “jab” or “big punch” is angling. Against a Southpaw, it’s a little harder because you aren’t as used to the pattern.

Round One went terribly for me. I was outskilled and outclassed. She was lightning quick, nimble, coordinated. The home crowd went wild.

And then just before the bell I landed one good punch. Just one. She shook her head and turned away.

Back in the corner with my coach, he leaned down and shouted into my face as loudly as he could, drowning out the audience: “SHE DIDN’T LIKE IT WHEN YOU HIT HER. SHE CAN’T TAKE A PUNCH. YOU ARE TOUGHER THAN SHE IS.”

Round Two started. And I got back into the ring with a woman who was inherently more talented than me – who went on to become the national champion the next year in our weight class – and I dug deep. Because I’d taken more punches than she had, and I knew I could keep on going.??

The crowd hushed. I landed a few more hits.

And then for some reason unbeknownst to me, I literally GROWLED. I stared at this talented opponent and unlocked something within myself. I growled at her, and let loose with a flurry of punches.

The referee called for a match stoppage. We didn’t go the full three rounds; I’d won the bout.

My best friend and I took home trophies that day, and I took home an insight.

See, in the ring you need both resilience and adaptivity. You need to be built of steel to take the punch and keep on standing. At the same time, if you have stiff knees you can pass out, so you have to avoid locking out, stay loose, bob and weave.?

In that ring I was my father’s daughter. I was my mother’s daughter. I was not going down.?

There is power in steel. My father showed me that. There is power in standing firm, putting everything behind that punch, being singularly focused on only one outcome that literally puts blinders on everything else around you. My dad’s strength was always like a massive skyscraper, tall and imposing, built of metals and glass and resisting the currents to declare its presence – and yet also at risk when the winds move faster and the storms rise.

There is power in bamboo. My mother showed me that. There is power in bending, staying light on the feet, being able to move and flex and adapt. My mom’s strength was always more like bamboo – when the storms come, the wood strains and bends but does not break, it shifts as needed to survive.

Against the London Southpaw I was my father’s daughter, my mother’s daughter; I knew who I came from. They gave me their different kinds of strength, and I stood firm and bent to absorb the storm.

The London Southpaw showed me that both types of strength are required to survive in this world. She gave me the chance to dig deep for tenacity, resilience, courage.

And when in doubt – to growl.