After her mum died, Anna Whitwham was drawn to martial arts, and found an outlet for her grief in the ring
I am standing in the middle of the boxing ring, a stage lit up like a theatre. I’ve hit the woman so hard she staggers back into the ropes. The pause makes me relax. I think I’ve won, but I’m wrong. Rage moves her. Boxing can be like a game of chess, a play on stillness and control. But not now, and not here. I am scrappy and wild. When she comes for me, I launch myself at her. My face can take this pounding – it’s been thickened by temper and that’s enough. Then she hits me and my legs buckle and my head spins. There is the thud of silence as I scramble for sense – but it’s over. My body is done.
I started boxing soon after my mum died. It had been a long and brutal three years of watching the tumour take over, edging closer to her throat. It happened during Covid, so visiting her in the hospice felt clandestine and sneaky – we’d stalk the silent wards in masks, hands raw with sanitiser, scared to touch each other. I nursed and helped her to the end. I witnessed how the mechanisms of her body stopped working. I watched Mum stop eating because her body wouldn’t let her swallow. Bedsores stopped her sleeping. She needed extra blankets to stop the mattress causing her pain.
Continue reading… After her mum died, Anna Whitwham was drawn to martial arts, and found an outlet for her grief in the ringI am standing in the middle of the boxing ring, a stage lit up like a theatre. I’ve hit the woman so hard she staggers back into the ropes. The pause makes me relax. I think I’ve won, but I’m wrong. Rage moves her. Boxing can be like a game of chess, a play on stillness and control. But not now, and not here. I am scrappy and wild. When she comes for me, I launch myself at her. My face can take this pounding – it’s been thickened by temper and that’s enough. Then she hits me and my legs buckle and my head spins. There is the thud of silence as I scramble for sense – but it’s over. My body is done.I started boxing soon after my mum died. It had been a long and brutal three years of watching the tumour take over, edging closer to her throat. It happened during Covid, so visiting her in the hospice felt clandestine and sneaky – we’d stalk the silent wards in masks, hands raw with sanitiser, scared to touch each other. I nursed and helped her to the end. I witnessed how the mechanisms of her body stopped working. I watched Mum stop eating because her body wouldn’t let her swallow. Bedsores stopped her sleeping. She needed extra blankets to stop the mattress causing her pain. Continue reading… Boxing, Women, Women, Life and style, Society, Sport
