Note: This essay alludes to discussion of ED, SA

I’ve spent a good portion of my life covertly weaving to the tail end of the kickball line, literally and proverbially. I was a fragile kid: Between the glasses, the asthma, and my countless allergies, I turned on the television and fiercely associated with any of the characters that fit the ’nerd’ archetype. Then, an early scare with a rare disease in my toddlerhood made my parents want to reenact their version of 2001’s Bubble Boy; I often stayed inside and read books whenever the UV index or air quality reached a degree they deemed unacceptable. I was frequently picked last, widely known as a “klutz,” and I never played an organized sport as a child.

Sure, I was kind, curious, and creative. But I never felt strong.

My relationship with my body, historically, has never been a friendly one. As a teenager, I was naturally scrawny and deerlike, which worked in my favor when my ugly duckling beginnings unexpectedly turned into a modeling contract in New York City. But no matter what someone hired me to do or told me to be, the feeling of "not strong" still rang out as an evergreen punchline in my life. When I was modeling, being “fit” was shorthand for being thin, and having no pre-existing positive relationship with moving my body only cemented that notion. I felt pressure to be skinny for survival. Cardio was nothing more than a way to make rent—and to quite literally sprint away thoughts about my flesh prison.

In the years that followed, I worked hard to heal the wounds left by those more regimented and close-minded perceptions, eventually accepting the more exciting truth that so many types of bodies outside of “thin” are beautiful. After I left the modeling industry, and my self-esteem took on new shape, that reframing was a lifeline as my own body changed from a waiflike young adult to a woman. I stopped working out so voraciously and developed a much healthier, less restrictive diet. But eventually, the end of working out regularly led to the end of working out entirely. Granting myself the permission to not push my body 24/7 turned into me ignoring the privilege of being able to move my body in a way that felt good. And so, through excessive fitness and then none at all, that old phrase followed me still: I was not strong.

I worked to reassure myself that I had endless alternative qualities to offer, but being “not strong” carried negative associations for me beyond the obvious physical ones. I didn’t like feeling incapable, defenseless, and stagnant, especially in times when I didn’t practice ideal self-talk.

On the other hand, the memories of pushing myself too hard in a gym turned my mind into a danger zone, one that I wasn’t keen on returning to any time soon. So time passed. Years went by, during which the majority of my body movement was a daily walk or the occasional workout class with a friend, every three to six months at most. I started thinking of my body as a floating head—nothing below the clavicle—and leaning into my inside gag of being the uncoordinated jokester.

And that worked for a while, until I started experiencing chronic joint and nerve pain in my late twenties. After modeling, my new career required a lot of travel and flexibility, and I noticed my body was having trouble keeping up with my schedule. I had known that I was made weak in the human factory, no doubt. But I didn’t foresee that at 27 years old, I would be diagnosed with fibromyalgia, spending my few snippets of free time trying to chase down what was happening with my hypermobile joints. And while it felt affirming to learn that, yes, my lack of strength was quite literally clinical, I felt a renewed sense of desperation to claim strength for myself, in whatever ways were possible for me. It was time to try, if not for my self-esteem, then to tangibly keep myself together.

Another gift that Muay Thai gave me was mental clarity. While other workouts felt like doing the same task over and over again, the combinations and quick thinking required in Muay Thai stimulated my brain when my body was fighting in other ways. Intrusive thoughts about being a chronic “klutz” or about what my body looks like didn’t have enough room to exist when I was trying to remember whether it was “hook, jab, cross” or “hook, cross, jab.” For the first time, it felt like moving my body and sharpening my mind could happen at the same time, and that was the key I had been missing. As a forever “floating head,” joining my two halves together let loose powerful emotions and validated my need to not just be a face with a downside. I was a full person, with mind, body, and spirit connected. And for once, I had the mental strength to see all of who I am.

Of course, I would be doing a disservice if I didn’t remind everyone that Muay Thai is a martial art and a form of self-defense. It’s true; I’m not getting into fisticuffs with anyone on a regular basis, but the feeling of walking around the world with no defenses bled into how I carried myself in public. Like most women, I have had my own fair share of harassment and violence at the hands of stronger and more intimidating people. I was raised to fawn instead of fight, so feeling the permission to strike anything as hard as possible shook something terrifyingly new loose from my core. I didn’t realize what it felt like to fight back after a lifetime of merely fighting through. As women, we’re taught to survive at all costs, to brace ourselves for what’s to come, to anticipate other people’s actions as though we’re clairvoyant. But all of that stored emotion comes at a high cost; famously, The Body Keeps the Score even theorizes that it can manifest into physical trauma. I can’t pretend to be an expert on this, but what I do know is that having a safe place to access the rage that I feel makes me want to stand up for myself in other ways when I am made to feel small or afraid. Which is why the best thing I’ve taken from my Hit House experience is the strength to take hold of my own autonomy.

It’s been months since my journey began, so frankly, a lot of this is still new. But I continue to see results, and my favorite perks are the invisible ones. I love my group classes, but I’ve also been inspired to seek out individual training and develop a personal gym routine in my own space. It took me years to get there, but the secret was finding an activity that just felt like something I wanted to be good at. I know that sounds simple, but when we all spend so much time thinking about how we look or are perceived, maybe just wanting to prove you can punch harder than last week is enough.

Why do I train? Because my story isn’t the story of an emotional Olympic athlete’s comeback or even a hometown sports hero. This is the story of someone who was always picked last, picking themselves first. At every ability level, every age, and every lived experience, it is never too late to want to feel better. And I can finally say this: I feel strong.

Allison Faith is a writer and visual artist living in New York City. Her work focuses on gender, embodiment, and movement. When she’s not putting words together in an exciting order, you can find her taking a Muay Thai class, or fostering a dog in need.