Lessons from the Ring #3: How I Claimed a Different Kind of Power

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 third lesson I learned from my time as an amateur boxer. And specifically, from my last bout, where I realized that I was finished with this sport, and what this meant for me. It’s a lesson about boxing and power.

When I started the sport, boxing allowed me to claim the power of my body.?

As a woman, this was no small thing. As a woman, I’d grown up in a world?that told me to look at my body from the?outside-in – was I attractive enough, fashionable enough, thin enough? I’d also grown up in a world where to my left and my right, I saw women who had learned that our bodies are not our own, that they can be invaded without our consent in some fashion, from small microaggressions to larger more painful encounters. I knew these things personally.?

Sports allowed me to look at my body from the inside-out – what can I do with this body, how fast can I move, how much can I lift, what mountain can I climb? For me, boxing was a great teacher. I gained swagger in my walk, because no matter how I felt when I looked in the mirror, when I came home from the gym, rinsed from the ring, I felt powerful.??

But here’s the plot twist.?

Boxing allowed me to claim the power of my body. And then when I finally quit boxing, I claimed a different power.

This is a story about another boxer called Sam. She and I had fought each other early in my boxing days, and it was a brutal match-up.??Not the most graceful of boxers, but she hit like a freight truck. I won that first bout, and left the ring covered in blood with bruises for days.

Sam and I became friends; we lived in small boxing circles, met up in London, were friends on Facebook. A couple years passed, and we were scheduled for a rematch at a London show. A few weeks before this next bout, I learned from Facebook that she’d just lost her father to cancer. My heart went out to her.

When we got into the ring, I was sharp, I was strong, I was ready. I may have been nimbler, but when she connected it still felt like a lead hammer.?

And that’s when it happened. At some point during the actual bout, feet on the canvas, gloves up, I remember thinking: “I’m losing”. And a split second later, to myself: “It’s okay, Kaleen, she needs this more than you do.”?

You can’t waver in contact sports. You have to commit, to know that you are going to punch through that plywood slab in karate or push through that pack in rugby; you have to have a singular objective, or you’re going to get hurt.??

But in that moment, in that ring, there was no more growling instinct inside of me. In that moment, I knew I was losing, and I didn’t rally the will to win.?

The bout was a split decision, and she ended up winning on points.?

I was somewhat split myself. What did losing mean? What would winning have meant?

That bout in London was my last. My first thought was that it was good for Sam to have this win, that it would give her something positive to hold onto in a time of grief. My next thought was this: I’ve boxed all the anger and pain out of my body.?

Boxing allowed me to claim the power of my body. And when I was finished, boxing taught me that someone else’s win was not my loss.?

In the ring for the final time, boxing taught me that I didn’t have to conform to the standard, more male-centric version of power and dominance in order to have power. I was powerful when I boxed, and I was just as powerful when I said I was finished. I was just as powerful when in the middle of an intense bout I felt compassion. My compassion is my weapon, just as I hold to empathy, kindness, gentleness.??

I still believe it is possible to claim power in different ways: I was strong when I was boxing, and I was just as strong when I let go and could instead feel comfortable in my own skin.?

Sometimes the laying down of a thing is an act of power just as much as taking it up. Someone else’s win is not your loss. Someone else got that promotion? Not your loss. Someone else’s project won the award? Not your loss. Someone else seems to be managing this whole parenthood thing better than you? Not your loss.

I’ve said this before and I will say it again. The world is big enough for all of us. For all the kinds of power we hold. For the strength of steel, and the strength of bamboo. For competition and for compassion.

In the end, this is what boxing taught me:

1. Progress is not Linear – but we can reach up and bend down justice.
2. Dig deep for tenacity, resilience, courage – when in doubt: Growl.
3. And finally: our power comes in many forms – the world is big enough for each of us.?