October 22, 2024
During my childhood, I didn’t show any predisposition for sports. I was clumsy, too tall, unaware of how to deal with my body that grew up too fast. In school, the only time I managed to run fast during a competition, my knees got tangled and I fell flat on my face. I was a few seconds away from winning the race against the fastest boy in my class. I remember I laughed it off, but I hated it. I hated my tall body, my long legs. I hated being 5 feet 7 at only 12 years old.
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My classmates weren’t tender with me. At 6, I discovered life can be cruel, especially human beings toward other human beings. I didn’t understand why I was the object of such harsh bullying and humiliation. I didn’t understand why the girls were so mean in groups but always afraid to approach me when they were alone. I remember a particularly rough day. I was sitting in the playground, reading the first Hunger Games book, when two boys started throwing rocks at me. I was furious; I had had enough this time. I remember throwing my book on the ground, the concrete scratching the pages, and standing up to scream at them. But they were prepared. Two of their friends came up behind me, held my arms, and the girls joined in, punching me in the stomach and kicking my legs. I remember their laughter, their ugly, vile laughter. One of the girls had such a strident voice, it sent shivers down my spine. I looked around desperately, hoping someone would come and save me. But no one did. That was the moment I felt the most helpless in my life. I saw people looking at me and ignoring me. I was invisible. When they finally got tired of tormenting me, they left me there, crying, with my heart torn apart. I picked up my book, brushed off the pages, and saw my mom entering the playground. I ran to the warmth of her arms, and her gentle hand in my hair calmed me.
When we got home that night, my dad said, "Aleks, you're strong enough to fight back. If this happens again, you destroy them, and I’ll cover your ass. I’ve got your back my little girl. Always."
This went on for three years and it destroyed me psychologically. I felt as if I didn’t belong anywhere, as if I was a monster. Too tall, too different.
A few years later, a night out with my dad that was supposed to be a regular father-daughter moment turned into one of the most revealing experiences of my life. He took me to see one of his friend's boxing matches, which I wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about. But when we entered the noisy hall, filled with people cheering for the fighters in the ring, my attention shifted to them as well. For the first time, I saw female boxers. They were fighting like two lionesses in the wild.
“I want to do that,” I said to my dad without hesitating. He raised his eyebrows and smiled with a mix of surprise and happiness. “You sure?” he said.
Two years later, I was pushing the door of the boxing gym for the first time. An acrid smell of Tiger Balm mixed with sweat invaded my nostrils. This place would soon become my second home. The ring, that little square with its bouncy ropes, made me feel safe. I didn’t know it yet, but this sport would become the best form of therapy for me. I settled my scores with my childhood in that ring. Every punch I threw, every bruise I caused, every grimace my fists and legs provoked felt like a victory. Even though my dad practiced English boxing, I chose kickboxing. My strong lower body and height became clear advantages.
Kickboxing is often considered an ugly form of the sport, but it’s also nicknamed "The Eighth Art." It may be less graceful and less pleasant to watch than its counterpart, but there’s something magical about using your whole body, your fists, your knees, your legs, to knock out your opponent.
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Sometimes, anger cannot be contained in only your fists; you have to throw your whole self into the fight. I spent hours watching Anissa Meksen’s fights, an 18-time world champion and 5-time Glory world champion. She's renowned for advancing the role of women in the sport, and my favorite pastime was consuming her fights on YouTube, studying her technique to apply in the ring. Kickboxing is still a man’s world, and as a young woman, you have to work twice as hard to succeed. But Meksen paved the way for the generations of girls who followed.
This sport is hard on the mind and the body. My pale skin was constantly bruised after hours of training, leaving me with no strength, until all I could do was throw up in the bucket in the corner of the ring. When I first put on my beloved red gloves, I was only 14. My body wasn’t ready for this strong discipline. I was starting to grow as a young woman, and my breasts were sore every day because of the punches I endured. The soles of my feet were cut open after every practice, flooding my shower with blood. Weirdly enough, I thought my body was becoming beautiful. I definitely wasn’t growing like most girls my age, but I was getting strong and enduring. This place saw me change, and the locker room became my safe place where I would take refuge after a tough fight. After a long school day, my mind became peaceful as soon as I entered that room. My ritual helped: carefully tightening two braids on each side of my head, applying muscle cream, putting on the bandages on my hands, massaging my sore feet.​​​​
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​​Every time I was getting inside the ring, I imagined the girl that bullied me the most standing in front of me. My dad’s words came back in my mind very often: “You’re strong enough to fight back,” and I finally understood what he meant. I finally felt strong. I was strong. I was the tallest girl in the gym, and it turned out to be my biggest strength. Shorter people never managed to approach me because they were always met with a long arm to the chin, followed by the unpleasant sound of their teeth clashing together after I had punched them.
During a particularly tough practice, I isolated myself in the locker room and started crying, my tears mixing with sweat. I felt like my body couldn’t carry me anymore—I had no strength left, no courage. My arms dropped every time I got punched, and I couldn’t fight back. Sitting there on the wooden bench under a harsh light, I saw myself in the mirror, only to discover a flushed face and puffy eyes. I took off my gloves and dug my nails into the bench until it hurt. That’s when my dad entered the room and sat down next to me in silence. He let me cry on his shoulder until I was exhausted and had no tears left. Then he said, "This is just like life. Some days are very hard, and other days you feel like you’re going to conquer the world. But on the bad days, you don’t give up, even when it hurts, because it’s going to pay off at some point. Get back in there.” He didn’t even wait for an answer. He gently patted my back, picked up my gloves, and left. After he was gone, I looked at myself in the mirror again, let out a relieved sigh, and put on my hand armor. I came back in the gym, slipped my head between the ring ropes and got back on my feet. I was ready to take down my bully once more — until I could finally kill her in my mind.
Later that year, a friend invited me to her prom. I chose a beautiful short black dress that highlighted my fit shape, along with a pair of black heels. I wasn’t afraid to show myself anymore—I loved being the tallest in the room. While we were waiting in line at the cloakroom, I saw my childhood bully standing right in front of me. My stomach dropped. She was as short as I remembered, with the same washed-out brown hair and the same strident voice that instantly brought back bad memories. Hearing her chat with her friend, carefree, unsettled me. She was wearing a long dark blue dress that covered most of her body. Then I heard her say to her companion, "I wanted to buy a short dress, but the lady at the store said I was too small for that." Her voice carried a note of sadness as she turned around. That's when she saw me, and she had to raise her head to meet my gaze. I stood over her, radiating strength and confidence. I felt splendid, and I smiled at her.
I had won the fight.