By Daniela Brunner
•
August 21, 2020
Feed me When the Worrier is in control, attacking my mind with endless repeats of unhelpful thoughts, my body feels weak and defeated. Its constant recycling of negativity into new packages of pain keep me chained to the wheel of helplessness. Two decades ago, I would have instinctively turned to food for comfort, a few moments joy before the inner torment would break over me like a wave dragging me into its depths. Luckily, 16 years ago I have found another way to disrupt the endlessly turning wheel of misery and grief. Entering the gym arena At the age of 35, I had already lost a considerable amount of weight and the idea of joining a gym no longer horrified me. I was still, in my eyes, the fattest, most unfit person lifting weights and hitting the cross-trainer there, but I did give myself some credit for at least trying to get into shape. However, motivation was becoming a problem because I did not become the lean, mean machine I had envisaged quickly enough. So, I turned to group classes instead hoping to find inspiration and drive when the Worrier whispered its poison into my ears. After trying several different types of guided workouts, I had walked into a kickboxing class, expecting to feel just as out of place and overwhelmed as I had in all the others. The lessons started with the entire class comprised only of the fittest of the fit, and me, lining up whilst our trainer ordered us to flex our ab’s. Just as I was wondering if I had any and where to find them exactly, he started kicking the first person in line into the stomach with what I now know as a front kick. They all heroically stayed vertical and just had to retreat a few steps. When it was my turn, I only had time to prepare myself to be knocked back badly. But the hard impact and humiliation never came. My trainer had the sense not to push too hard and I learnt one important lesson that day: It’s enough to just stand your ground. Fighting fit From that day on I became not the best but the most loyal student. When a kickboxing lesson was scheduled I was there. When I fell, I got up again. When I had pain, I endured and carried on. It made me realise that I could take a lot more than I thought, that I was stronger than I had ever imagined. I became not only physically fitter but also mentally stronger, something which was severely tested in the months to come. Around the time that I slowly got the hang of all the kickboxing moves and felt part of the group, my husband got ill. When he was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer I was faced with another internal choice: return to food or workout for comfort? I chose to stay active and punched and kicked myself through the coming weeks and months as my husband became weaker and closer to death. Telling no one at the gym, except my trainer, was also helpful because these were the only moments in my life where I was not seen and pitied as the wife of the dying husband. During the lessons I could be myself, forgetting for a while that tomorrow we’d go for another chemotherapy or hear bad news from his doctor. After his death less than a year after diagnosis I worked out almost constantly and eventually got together with my new partner and now husband whom I met in kickboxing class. Defying the Worrier Since then, kickboxing has become my constant companion, my lifeline pulling me through dark times, keeping me physically and mentally strong in the knowledge that I do not have to win, be the strongest or best because all of that will one day fade away. I just have to be there, turn up, stand my ground, face my fears. Then the Worrier doesn’t get a chance to pull me back into its endless cycle of pain, grief and self-pity. I have accepted that I cannot perhaps defeat the Worrier only control it by staying and feeling strong. Then it becomes just another opponent, another challenger and all I have to do is face it, stand my ground. That is enough.