In 2021, I started doing boxing workouts, not to compete in fights, but to regain confidence in myself. It’s been my way of regaining energy, confidence, and joy. This mini story offers a little insight beneath that fire.
He walks with me to the gym, his hand brushing against mine every few steps. It’s enough to remind me that he’s here.
The sun has set low behind the trees, enveloping everything in that golden hour glow I like. The city noise fades. My hoodie clings to my lower back, and my skin feels warm before I’ve even thrown a single punch. I see him eyeing me out of the corner of his eye, like he usually does.
“You’re quiet,” I observe, glancing over.
He grins. “Just thinking how hot you look when you’re about to ruin someone.”
I roll my eyes but can’t control the smile that appears on my mouth. He knows. He’s seen me in the ring—gloves on, hair slick with sweat, arms sharp and fierce. He’s seen me transform into someone else. Or maybe become more of who I’ve always been, despite the weight of years, expectations, and softness I had to bear.
We pause at a bench near the entrance. I sit and sip my water. He leans on the railing next to me, close but not touching. He’s giving me space to breathe.
“I used to hate this body,” I mutter softly. “I used to think it wasn’t mine. Huge, heavy, thick in the wrong places.”
He does not interrupt.
“Boxing gave it back to me. I no longer care about losing weight. All that matters is the fire in my blood, the energy and power it gives me.
He turns to face me, his eyes serious. “It shows. The way you carry yourself now. “It’s… magnetic.”
I laugh. “Magnetic, huh?”
“Absolutely.”
I stand, slinging my towel over my shoulder. He leans closer.
“Try not to knock anyone out in there.”
“No promises.”
And then I walk in, knowing he’s watching. I know he’ll be there when I’m done. And I know too that I’ve already won something far more important than a fight.
And here’s a poem to accompany this story.
Grit
They said my body was a church.
No, it was a battlefield—
all pew and destruction.
I learned to swing
to pull breath from
the edge of bruise,
to let sweat baptize
what shame could not.
I fought like a searing fire,
feral that dances,
not soft or safe.
He watches,
as if I was the last
honest thing
he’d ever lay eyes on.
Copyright © Olivia JD 2025
All Rights Reserved.
Olivia's Atelier 