MELISSA HARTZ
News Editor

It’s 5:30 at night, and I am about to begin my very first kickboxing class. Though my workouts usually occur in the campus gym, I was lucky enough to be offered a guest pass to an outside gym by my friend Nicole - this will be a nice change from the elliptical and weight room. I can’t help but feel a little warrior-like as I strap the red gloves to my hands, eyeing up the nearly eight-foot heavy bag chained up in front of me. Our instructor, black-haired and built, removes his green plaid flannel shirt and lays it in the center of the punching bags. I’m in pretty good shape - this should be easy, right?
Wrong.
Very, very wrong.
Halfway through the hour-long class, I’m having visions of myself puking all over the parking lot by the time 6:30 hits. Tendrils of hair come loose from my ponytail and stick to my face, and I can only imagine how badly my makeup is running.
The sounds of rattling chains and loud music are all around me. My lungs feel cold and tight, sucking in as much air as possible with each breath. This is, without a doubt, the most challenging physical test I’ve ever taken on. Yet, as intense as the class is, I find myself thoroughly enjoying the whole experience.
My closed fists make satisfying “whumps” against the bag on contact, and the material gives slightly under my blows. For a little while, there is nothing in the room except for me and the bag chained to the ceiling. With each hit, I can feel my stress traveling through my knuckles, dissipating into the fabric like leaves into the wind. Everything that was weighing on me, sitting in the back of my mind and eating away at who I am, is slowly lifting.
Toward the end of the class, we close our legs around the bottom of the bag and hold a dumbbell over our heads, engaging the core muscles to bring us into a sitting position. Once up to the top, we would take the dumbbell and hit the bag as high as possible. With sweat practically pouring off me, I crunch up and smash the weight against the heavy black canvas. I imagine that every stressor in my life is balled up inside that boxing bag, and each crash of weight against canvas is a small victory for me and my self-confidence.
The instructor calls the end of the class, and I lay on my back on the mat, feeling my abdomen rise up and down quickly with every breath I take. I’m not one for spiritual experiences, but I imagine that that might be what one feels like.
Perhaps these challenges we present ourselves with help us find a little more than just physical strength. Perhaps we need to push ourselves to our limits in order to see who we truly are.
I am stronger than anything this life throws my way.
The red padded gloves hang over my bed like a trophy as I sleep, full of hot tea, ibuprofen, and satisfaction.