“You! Today you die,” my trainer barks as I pull on my gloves and climb into the ring, giving him a glare which I hope matches his bite. I dodge a high kick and block one to my shins, only to receive a tap to the face that leaves me disoriented. And then it’s all downhill. For the next 12 minutes, I proceed to get owned – jabs to the face, kicks to the thigh, foot tips to the stomach. In fact, the only time I can take a breather is after I’ve been dropped in a most unglamorous manner and crash to the floor. My trainer’s grin never leaves his face, even as he shouts encouraging words of abuse, a reminder that I’m in still in the Land of Smiles. Despite the beating I take, when I limp out of the ring I “Wai” him – bowing my head with my hands together in a symbol of respect and gratitude – for making me feel alive.

Read More