Roundhouse Kick to Self-Deprecation

Nearly a year ago, I did something that felt ridiculous at the time. I joined a kickboxing class.

Picture this: an almost-forty, overweight, very-unprepared man, who could barely touch his toes, stepping into a room full of fit fighters. Not exactly an underdog story waiting to happen.

I walked into the gym braced for impact.

I expected the usual stuff. Stares. Smirks. That quick scan people do where they measure you from head to toe and file you away as not belonging there. I had already written the whole script in my mind before the class even began.

A few minutes in, I heard a woman and the coach giggling. I turned and saw them looking in my direction. My stomach dropped. Heat rushed to my face. I was sure they were laughing at me, the new guy who clearly did not fit the part.

I had not thrown a single punch, and I already felt like a joke. Thankfully, I spotted a few other brave souls who also looked old and out of shape. Allies. My people.

A Warmup Where My Soul Temporarily Left My Body

The warmup started, and within five minutes, I discovered muscles I hadn’t used since college. They were not happy to see me.

I couldn’t do half the drills. I couldn’t breathe properly. But I kept trying, mostly because pride wouldn’t let me collapse dramatically.

Somewhere in the middle of this chaos, the coach walked over, patted my shoulder, and encouraged me to keep going. Nothing poetic — just a simple gesture that felt like a lifeline. So I kept at it, fully aware I’d probably fail at everything anyway.

The Gloves of Embarrassment

Once the warm-up ordeal ended, we were told to put on our gloves. I proudly pulled out my shiny new pair when the coach suddenly shouted across the room, looking directly at me:

“You do not need those.”

Public embarrassment: level 9000.

But he wasn’t insulting me — he just meant I belonged in the beginner corner. “This side is for first-day students. We start slow here.” He said with a smile. A place for total novices like me who still mix up left and right.  

That one sentence flipped the situation. I was not being singled out for mockery. I was being guided to where I actually belonged.

The other two in the beginners' corner were younger and way fitter, but at least we were all equally clueless about technique. The coach showed us the basics. Stance. Guard. Jab. Cross. Simple kicks.

I tried to copy his movements exactly. Feet here, hands there, rotate the hip, pivot the back leg. I was focused completely on what he was doing, too busy concentrating to feel self-conscious.

The Chosen One… Albeit Just for a Minute

After a few minutes, he watched me throw a combination and said one word loudly enough for the others to hear.

“Bravo.”

I was shocked. Me? Bravo? I almost looked behind me to check if he was talking to someone else.

He came up later and asked if I had done martial arts as a child. I had to laugh. I told him no, unless you count growing up on a diet of badly dubbed kung fu movies. He seemed genuinely surprised that I was picking things up fast.

For a moment, I felt like the chosen one. Then my stamina died, reminding me exactly who I was, but I rode that tiny wave of approval for the rest of the session.

Eventually, my energy levels crashed. The younger ones were still bouncing while I was running on fumes. When the class ended, I was drenched, shaking, and completely done. I walked up to the coach, bumped fists with him, and thanked him. Not for some life-changing transformation. Just for not making me feel stupid for trying.

That night, everything hurt. Muscles I had forgotten about were loudly reminding me they existed. But underneath the soreness, there was something else I had not felt in a long time.

I felt proud of myself.

What I Actually Learnt

I did not walk out of there a new person. I did not suddenly become a fearless warrior ready to conquer the world. But that first class did teach me a few things I keep coming back to.

People aren’t always laughing at you.
Sometimes they're literally just… laughing.

Trying new things is not as scary as your brain makes it.
Apparently, years of watching martial arts movies had taught me something after all.

Fear wants to make the decisions for you.
And if I had listened to it, I’d have left the moment the warmup began.

That day, everything in my body hurt — but weirdly, I felt good. More confident than I had been in ages.

And Then Came Sparring

Here’s the honest part.

After a while, the training shifted. Sparring became mandatory, intense, and full-contact. The sessions were getting too aggressive for what I wanted from my life.

I couldn’t show up at home with a bloody nose and explain to my kid that Daddy was “learning.” So I stopped attending. No dramatic meltdown. No shame. No mid-class exit. Just a quiet, practical decision to step away from something that no longer fits me.

The Real Ending (Not The Movie Version)

I didn’t become a fighter. I didn’t emerge with a warrior mindset. I did, however, walk into a space that terrified me, stay long enough to realise I wasn’t useless, and leave with more confidence than I arrived with. And honestly, that feels like a perfectly good ending.

No moral of the story here — except maybe this:

Trying once is sometimes enough. And quitting is allowed, especially if it saves your nose.