If you know me at all, it may have crossed your mind once or twice that “Scrappy” is a wildly inaccurate name (borderline antonym) for a sensitive, gentle, slightly anxious woman who locks doors compulsively, clocks exits upon entering a room like Jason Bourne, and can spiral over… well… everything.
I’m tall. Long-limbed. Gangly. Built like a praying mantis with feelings. I struggle to put muscle on my frame, and if I ever appeared confident, please know—I was almost certainly faking it and hoping no one called my bluff.
When I first chose Scrappy, it wasn’t because I was tough. It was because life had knocked me flat a few times, and I kept getting back up. Scrappy was a metaphor, not a brand promise. Survival, not swagger.
I was very careful with the wording on my blog—just in case anyone thought I meant physically scrappy. Because let’s be honest. I was kind of a wuss.
Fast forward eight years.
About fifteen months ago, my dearest friend dragged me (against my will and better judgment) to a 9Round Kickboxing Studio to “just try it.” Free workout. What could go wrong?
Everything hurt. I came home a dripping, broken mess. The next day I could barely move.
And I was obsessed.
I couldn’t stop thinking about kickboxing.
Turns out—I like hitting things.
Me.
The girl who apologizes to furniture when she bumps into it.
Apparently, there was a mildly angry elf living inside me, and she wanted a turn.
I begged my husband for a membership. He bought me two months for Mother’s Day. I begged harder. Pleaded. Prayed. Negotiated like a hostage situation.
I was in.
Fifteen months later, here’s what kickboxing has taught me:
When I put on my gloves, I am not gentle. I am fierce.
Somewhere beneath the softness, I found strength. I’m an athlete. A warrior. A woman who can still bring it in midlife and surprise herself doing so. Empowerment is intoxicating. I walk taller. My core stays engaged. My body rests easier because it’s earned the rest.
When I put on my gloves, I leave my worries behind.
Sometimes I give my problems faces. Then I punch them. I pray while I kick. I occasionally “accidentally” kick my trainer. And I pummel. There is something deeply satisfying about sweating out your issues until that annoying little problem taps out on the mat.
When I put on my gloves, I put away excuses.
Once I complained about the gym being freezing to my ex-Marine trainer.
Mistake.
A memorable one.
I learned how fast a person can warm up in 33 degrees and also that it can always be worse. No whining. No negotiating. You show up and give what you have.
I’m currently rehabbing a torn rotator cuff and labrum. My arms have shrunk (tragic), but I still box—one arm burpees, one arm planks, bear crawls, mountain climbers. Two good legs. One good arm. That’s enough.
Because it’s always enough.
When I put on my gloves, I let go of vanity.
I used to show up to the gym with mascara, a cute outfit, and a perky ponytail. That’s how my mama raised me. Sweat is bad enough—why add humiliation?
Mom, forgive me. Those days are gone.
Now I wear clothes that protect me, cover me, and survive burpees. I don’t show off curves anymore—but I will proudly show you my bruises. And there are many.
My fitness goals used to be shallow. Lose weight. Maintain weight. That was it.
Now? I fuel my body. Wine and a protein bar are not dinner. And plot twist—I’ve gained weight. Gasp. Horror.
But my jeans are looser. I’m stronger. Healthier. And finally okay with a body that works hard and shows it.
(That realization alone was worth roughly 45 years of therapy.)
When I put on my gloves, I realize life is basically 9 Rounds.
Some rounds feel light and floaty. Others make you question your life choices. Sometimes you get knocked down. Sometimes the wind leaves your body in dramatic fashion. But God—and your people—are always in your corner telling you to get back up.
The only real way to fail is to not show up.
(Also, don’t drink gin before a workout. Learned that from someone else. Allegedly.)
Consider the underdog.
There’s a video of a dancing chihuahua I adore. Tiny dog. Serious moves. Completely unexpected.
That dog says, “Watch me, cholo.”
Underdog stories always start with a lie.
“I’m not strong.”
“I’m too sensitive.”
“I don’t fight back.”
I believed those lies.
Kickboxing changed that.
I might still cry while I punch you—because I’m tender-hearted—but I promise you won’t see it coming.
If you’ve believed lies about your strength, maybe it’s time to rock the boat. Try something scary. Something uncomfortable. Something that challenges the story you’ve been telling yourself.
Turn off Netflix. Text a brave friend. Do the thing.
Confront the inner wuss. Send her packing.
Truth?
The dog can dance.
And you are stronger than you think.
I didn’t know when I picked the name Scrappy that I’d someday find a fighter—not just metaphorical grit, but real strength. The kind that stands tall, throws punches, and refuses to shrink.
Keep your gloves up. 💥
–Samantha
