JUST PUBLISHED: I Accidentally Joined a Fight Gym — and It Saved My Life
I used to be a spreadsheet girlie. I planned my life down to the hour. Wake-up time, nap window, where to get dumplings, all typed in 12-point Times New Roman.
I wrote for two hours a day with a Pomodoro timer.
Twenty minutes on.
Five-minute ice cream breaks.
Tick boxes. Chase goals.
Books published.
Routines tight.
Discipline like a religion.
Until one day, I broke.
The First Shatter
My nervous system ghosted me. I’d been on anxiety meds for eight years by then.
My breakdown didn’t kick the door in — it let itself in politely.
Gaslighting. Coercion. Something bad happened. I froze. Disassociated. Blamed myself after.
Then Came the Diagnosis
My mum got liver cancer.
It’s terrifying when a parent gets sick.-Not just because of the illness. It rewrites everything you thought was permanent.
The woman who used to leave chicken out in the sun all day to “kill germs” was now the person I was Googling “life expectancy” for.
(Yes, she’s still alive. No, we do not let her near poultry anymore.)
The weight of it didn’t scream. It pressed. Quietly. Constantly.
Like grief moved in early and refused to wait its turn.
Panic with no volume control.
Love with an expiry date.
Afterward, I moved through my apartment like it was someone else’s.
I ate cereal from the box. I wore my PJs for days. Actually, I’ve always done that.
I stared at the ceiling and kept the lights off.
My body was moving. My brain was buffering.
The Week the Curtains Stayed Closed
I stayed in bed for days straight. Full lockdown. Anxiety in surround sound.
Covers pulled over my head like that would stop the thoughts.
My phone buzzed somewhere on the floor — of course I replied. I always do. You’re only as good as your manners.
Didn’t eat much. But sometimes ate everything in sight.
The curtains stayed closed.
Time blurred.
My chest clenched like something terrible was about to happen — but it never did.
It just loomed. My ambition clocked out.
That’s when Valium became breakfast. Lunch. Dessert.
I wasn’t popping it for fun — I was chasing quiet.
The Highlighter Era
From the outside? I was glowing.
That kind of glow that’s 80% highlighter and 20% tears held in with waterproof mascara.
I answered emails. I smiled. Joked. I asked how you were doing.
I showed up like it was my full-time job.
The Year I Didn’t Write
I didn’t write for a year. Not a single sentence.
Not even a sad little rhyme in my Notes app.
My laptop sat on the desk like a closed door.
I couldn’t open the doc. The cursor mocked me.
The Day My Brother Said It
My brother looked at me and said,
“You have a soft life. Do something hard.”
He meant an MMA gym.
I said, “You mean…punch people?”
He nodded.
I’d tried cognitivebehavioural therapy, hypnotherapy, medication. Nothing worked. So, I thought, I’ll try exercise. –
I visited the gym. I didn’t even know what Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu (BJJ) or Muay Thai were.
I thought it was WWE.
The Muay Thai trial class? A humiliation kink I never signed up for.
My form said, “please don’t hurt me.”
I hit like someone who studied philosophy.
I tried BJJ. Another beginner girl avoided me like I was a group project.
I left that day swearing I’d never return.
Then I found out it was a six-month contract.
I had accidentally joined a fight gym.
The Contract I Couldn’t Break
I showed up twice a week at the beginning.
Each visit was a full-blown performance.
Sometimes I cried in the car.
Sometimes I cried in the bathroom
Not because I didn’t want to be there — I actually didn’t —but because my anxiety was still spiralling. Unrelenting.
Always on edge.
Then I walked out smiling like nothing happened.
The Cold Shower Chronicles
Cold showers joined the mix.-For the trauma. For the delusion. For the algorithm.-I swore the first week. I’m a person who wears five jumpers indoors.-I sleep with the electric blanket on high.-The cold is my enemy.-Somewhere, Wim Hof sensed my weakness and sighed.
The Flickers
And then — slowly — I started to come back.
Not with fireworks. With flickers.
The first laugh I didn’t fake.
The first class I didn’t dread.
The first paragraph I wrote that didn’t suck.
Healing didn’t look like yoga and green juice.
Mine looked like bruises, breathwork, and a playlist called Breathe, Dickhead.
I cranked the gym up to five days a week.
Also, no one warned me BJJ had more gossip than a high school sleepover.
I stayed for the healing…and the drama.
The Shift
I’m not anti-medication.
Doctors hand them out like Skittles.
But I am anti-losing-yourself-quietly.
I was on anxiety meds for ten years.-Ten. Years.
Tried talking. Talking some more. Talking in circles. Talking is overrated.
After six months of martial arts and cold water, I came off the meds.-Not because I was “better.”
Because I finally believed my brain worked for me.
I retrained it.-Sat it down. Said: I’m in charge now.
Here’s what no one says out loud:-You’re anxious because your life sucks.
You’re not broken. You’re just uninspired.
You don’t need more mindfulness.
You need to toughen up.
The Challenge
If you’re barely holding it together? Same.
If you’re high-functioning and hollow? Been there.
Do something hard. (Not a euphemism. But also, maybe.)
I’d never done sports in my life. Physical activity was so far outside my comfort zone.
Your “hard” might look different.
Maybe it’s stand-up comedy. Speaking up. Singing badly in public. Saying no. Setting a boundary that wobbles.
Do something that puts pressure on your chest —-not to crush you,
but to teach you you’ll survive it.
Cry in the gym bathroom. Light a candle after.
Punch something soft. Laugh halfway through.
Even with shaky hands.
Even when you don’t believe in the morning.
Even when the night is louder than you.
Anxiety curled up beside me.
She never left. Just rewound every thought in my brain.
But I’m still here.-And that’s not nothing.
That’s a flicker.
And sometimes, flickers turn into fire.
