Chapter 1: The Dance of Boxing and Life

The heavy, rigid bag hangs on its hook, barely swaying. I jab rapidly—one, two, one, two—feeling buoyant as my feet spring beneath me. I hook again, uppercut, maintaining the rhythm of my punches. My hands are poised, knuckles firm, and my heart races in sync with the pounding music. As I strike the pads, my feet keep me balanced and agile, allowing me to connect with power. “Boxing,” my trainer emphasizes, “starts with the feet. If your footing isn’t right, forget the punches. A boxer must be able to dance before they can strike.”

Throughout my life, I've opted for flight over fight. In uncomfortable situations, my instinct is to escape: retreat, ignore, and bury the discomfort. This tendency has followed me since my days in my mother’s womb.

When I was eight months along—a significant presence in my mother’s belly—she confronted my uncle with a carving knife. My aunt recounted this years later, and the vivid image of the confrontation between my mother and uncle lingers in my mind, often surfacing unexpectedly. I strive to piece together that scene, even though I was unable to flee from it at the time.

In that dark sanctuary, I was familiar with my mother’s Belfast accent, filled with anger and frustration. Yet, the other voice, just as fierce, resonated deeply—a stark contrast to my father’s gentle English tone. I felt the tension as I bounced within my amniotic environment, synchronized with my mother’s emotional turmoil. What could have sparked their arguments? Even the slightest glance or sigh could ignite their tempers. Both were Irish, both were passionate, both were volatile.

It must have been challenging for my mother to wield that knife, especially with me so close to entering the world. Fortunately, I didn’t stain the kitchen floor with blood. Even in that comforting darkness, I sensed the knife’s glimmer just beyond the barrier of flesh. I didn’t make my grand entrance; I was not the climax of that chaotic scene.

A week later, I was born—feet first. “Your head never settled into position,” my mother recalled. “The doctor kept trying to turn you, only for you to flip back.” My mother’s skin bore the marks of the doctor’s efforts. The day before my birth, after another attempt to rotate me, I stubbornly returned to my original position.

“Such a determined little one!” the doctor exclaimed.

High on gas and air, my mother witnessed an unexpected sight: first one foot, then another emerging. Pushing my feet through the narrow passage was no small feat; it would have been easier to lead with my head. What drove me to keep my feet down and my head up? What instinct compelled me to enter the world this way? It seemed to be an innate desire to greet life through my feet.

What were my feet searching for? What was my head trying to evade? I have often pondered this. I wonder if deep down, I was still wary of that carving knife.

A neck is incredibly vulnerable; presenting it while still encased within my mother would be a perilous choice. No, I had to emerge ready to run from the knife’s threat.

As I hit the bag, striking the pads, my feet remain grounded, my stance poised. My feet dance, solid and prepared. They arrived first to equip me for the long journey of self-care, self-defense, and self-protection. In the chaos and dysfunction of family life, the knife was always close, glinting ominously near my neck.

Now, as I throw punches and jabs, I realize that my feet did not prepare me for flight. Rather, they ground me. My feet came first to ensure that I would not fear the knife. They steady me, allowing me to stand strong and face whatever challenges lie ahead.

The first video, "Annie Murphy Paul: What we learn before we're born," delves into the profound lessons that begin in utero, highlighting how early experiences shape our understanding of the world.

The second video, "Ted.com talk - What babies learn before they're born," explores the fascinating concept of prenatal learning, emphasizing how infants absorb information even before birth.