At 14, one woman decided to learn a martial art. She told her parents it was to defend herself on the mean streets of Congleton - a market town in Cheshire largely devoid of danger - when, in truth, it was because she wanted to be like Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Ah, the honesty of youth.
She joined a kickboxing club, and what could have been a passing phase became a thrice-weekly commitment spanning four years. She grew strong and flexible, swapping puppy fat for muscle. She routinely fought men without fear and found a confidence in her body she has never experienced before or since. By 2004, at 19, she earned her black belt after three torturous hours of punches, kicks, fitness drills and sparring, culminating in a “surprise” street-fighting section with multiple attackers wielding real pipes. Very Buffy indeed.
Then, almost as soon as she achieved it, she gave it up. She went travelling and to university, swapped the kickboxing club for nightclubs, and her body softened. She began to view the sport as something belonging to a younger, stronger version of herself. Until, in late 2024, a physio charmingly revealed she was “staring down the barrel of 40” with a cartilage tear and mild arthritis in her hip. She immediately mourned the thought of never again doing a spinning heel kick, despite barely having thought about it in 20 years. So, on a whim, she returned to her childhood club.
She expected to feel slow and out of place; instead, she came as close to time travel as is possible outside science fiction. Her old instructor Alastair was still in charge; his mum, Lyn, was still a coach; and the third person through the door was her old sparring partner, Amy. Muscle memory took over: jab-cross-hook-uppercut; jab-hook-backfist. When it came to her first spinning heel kick in decades, the flat of her foot hit the pad with a satisfying slap. Too easy, she mentally scoffed.
But when Alastair suggested a jump roundhouse kick, she hesitated. She hadn’t voluntarily leapt into the air since losing faith in the stability of her hypermobile ankles after one too many sprains in adulthood. She performed an embarrassingly timid hop. “It’s not because you can’t do it,” said Alastair. “It’s because you don’t believe you can.” He was right: the real barrier wasn’t physical decline but the mental assumption she was no longer capable. She jumped a second time and cleared enough height to make contact with the pad.
Afterwards, Alastair told her that if he had to grade her right then, she’d pass with a second dan blue belt, four below black. A better assessment than she’d dared hope for, albeit caveated with a reality check. The experience didn’t make her feel 19 again; she spent much of the next morning submerged in a salt bath and knocking back ibuprofen. But it transformed how she views her body. When she looks back at old gym photos, she knows she had zero appreciation for what it could do. If there’s one thing she hopes for, it’s that in 20 years’ time she’ll look back at photos of her training at 39 with a better appreciation of what her muscles and bones could still achieve.