Risky Business

photo by Joel Peterson Photography

“Usually, when we say we can’t do something, what we mean is that we won’t  do something unless we can guarantee that we’ll do it perfectly.”

 -Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way

I turned 34 on June 24^th.  I celebrated my birthday by competing in the Pike’s Peak International Boxing Championship, because nothing says, “Happy Birthday” like getting punched in the face.

Boxing isn’t something I’ve always been into.  Growing up in a family of athletes, I was content to be the “bookworm.”  Until recently, the most involved I’d ever been in competitive sports was a season sitting on the sidelines at soccer games cheering on my teammates when I was eight years old.  I’d missed most of the practices because I’d decided to stay home and read, so I wasn’t allowed to play.  I don’t remember feeling disappointed.

My brothers and my sister played a lot of sports.  My dad was a boxer, and he coached all four of my brothers to championship victories.  About a year and a half ago, my sister and I decided we wanted to see if we also had what it took to box.  I wonder sometimes why I thought, at the young age of (almost) 33, that it was a good idea for my first competitive sporting experience to be in a boxing ring.  But, “Go big or go home,” as they say.

There has been a learning curve for sure, although I am naturally athletic, and I have a propensity for this sport in particular for some reason.  My workouts have gone well, and I’ve managed to stick to my routine.  (Between boxing workouts, strength training, and running, my sister and I usually train at least eight hours a week, often more.)  My sparring (practice fighting) sessions have gone great and I’ve learned a lot.

But then I had an actual fight in March, and it went so poorly.  I got stage fright and completely froze, and I didn’t fight at all the way I had been sparring.  I was humiliated and confused.  For months, I seriously questioned whether or not I was ever going to compete again.  I began to wonder if I just didn’t have what it took to compete.  If I really was just a bookworm.  I started to think that I just couldn’t do it.  Actually, I'd realized that I couldn’t guarantee I would do it perfectly. 

Somewhere along the way I decided that I did want to compete again.  That I did have what it took, even though the time commitment for the training alone was overwhelming at times, and even though every time I got in the ring to spar I felt afraid. 

So there I was, on my 34^th birthday, geared up to get in the ring against the same girl I’d had my disastrous fight with three and a half months before.  In the meantime, she'd had another fight in which she stopped the girl by technical knockout in the second round.  I began to feel a little bit like I was living in a Rocky movie, or The Mighty Ducks, or (insert your favorite sports-themed underdog movie here). 

A couple of hours before my fight, my sister Janna gave me my birthday present.  It was a tumbler I'd been wanting, and a magnet that said, “Courage does not always roar.  Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.’” –Mary Anne Radmacher

My eyes filled with tears, and I knew, win or lose, I had courage enough to try again.

Right before my fight, I started having trouble catching my breath, and I felt my focus slipping away from the moment, from what I needed to do to get ready.  The haze I felt before my last fight started to cloud my perspective.  I froze.

My brother Jared and my dad brought me back.  “Just get out there and spar.”  My dad said, “You know how to do this.  You’re ready.” 

I was.  The bell rang, and I did exactly what I knew how to do. Unfortunately, I got hit with a hard jab in the first round, and my right eye immediately started swelling.  My contact lens bunched up in the corner of my eye and I could see the world closing in on my opponent.

My awesome black eye the next day.

But I fought well.  I protected my nose.  I kept my chin down, so my neck didn’t hurt the next day from having my head snap back.  My opponent was a more experienced fighter than I, and there were times in that fight where she was absolutely trying to knock me out—to kill me, it felt like—but I stayed alive.  I used my footwork to get out of her range.  I covered up and protected myself.  I clinched.  I punched back.  I didn’t win, but I went the distance, all four rounds.  In a lot of ways I’m prouder of that fight than if I'd been matched against someone less experienced and won.  I fought like myself, against a tough opponent, and that is all I wanted to do.

The Artist’s Way talks a lot about synchronicity.  As I was reading this week’s chapter and thinking about boxing, I found myself reading a quote from the movie Raging Bull that my dad and I have talked about many times.  It’s the first time Julia has said anything about boxing, and I was struck by the synchronistic nature of the timing.  In the movie, boxer Jake La Motta’s brother, who is also his manager, is trying to convince him to cut weight and fight an opponent he doesn’t know anything about.  He finishes by saying, “So do it.  If you win, you win, and if you lose, you win.”

My dad has also often reminded me that Wayne Gretzky’s famous quote, “You lose 100% of the shots you don’t take,” applies to boxing as well as to most of life, and that Woody Allen said, “Eighty percent of success is just showing up.” 

I showed up.  I lost, but I won.  Sometimes I remember how scared I was in that moment before the bell rang, and how scared I am every time I think about getting back in that ring.  It doesn’t get less terrifying.  But, as Susan Jeffers said, “We cannot escape fear.  We can only transform it into a companion that accompanies us on all our exciting adventures. … Take a risk a day—one small or bold stroke that will make you feel better once you have done it.”

Obviously that risk does not need to be getting in a boxing ring with someone who is basically trying to knock your head off.  (I don’t know if I’d even recommend doing that, honestly.)  But learning to play an instrument is risky.  Starting a blog is risky.  Trying a new recipe, writing a handwritten letter to a friend you haven’t talked to in a long time, taking a dance class at the Y—all risky.

I’ll leave you with one last thought from Julia Cameron about risk. 

Question:  “What would I do if I didn’t have to do it perfectly?”

Answer:  “A great deal more than I am.”