We did a visualization exercise last night at the gym. I asked everyone to close their eyes and imagine: getting your hands wrapped, gloves taped on, the sound of the crowd, entering the ring, the fight.
Although I told them I wasn't watching, I could feel some uncomfortable energy. The thoughts in my head when I do some of these exercises want to doubt our abilities, but the survivor that lives deep in my soul wanted me to tell the secret. She wants to be seen. She is my strength. She is my truth. She is THEIR truth.
Even though we don't have contact boxing in our gym, the fight represents the shedding of their outer skin of doubts, insecurities, defense mechanisms, and physical weight. We are ready to be free of our self-imposed limitations when we find that champion, the one that lives within. She is the definition of strong because she has nothing to prove.
Getting in my car after class I call my mom, “Hey mom, how are you?”
“Are you calling for dad?”
“No, was thinking of you actually.”
The pause was deafening.
“Mom, I wanted to say thanks.”
“I didn't do anything. Anyway, did you want to talk to your dad?”
Walking into my house that evening, my two teenage girls scramble, running to pick up their messes before I could find them.
“Hey Guys”
“Mom, I know we haven't done the dishes yet, it's just that…”
“Girls, do you know who you are?”
The pause was deafening.
“You're not in trouble, I wanted to tell you that I was wrong.”
Two faces stared back at me looking like Scooby-Doo––each with one eyebrow up.
“I realized in trying to teach you HOW to be I've forgotten who you are, so I was wondering, do you remember who you are?”
There was no answer from them. There didn't need to be an answer because I was also asking it of myself. Realizing that strength in parenthood and in life comes from saying “Thank you” and “Forgive me” was the gift from the inner voice of the champion last night.
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