Learning When to Give Up

At 63, Victoria Waddle looks back at the sadistic kickboxing instructor who inadvertently helped her realize you don't have to finish everything you start.

Evgeniy Kuznetsov/Getty Images

As a child, I loved being tested on my knowledge. This primarily happened in school, where I got good grades and sometimes even shiny medals. The stress of being tested only got to me in situations requiring physical competence.

Intrinsically uncoordinated, my failure began when my kindergarten teacher recommended me for the slow learners’ first grade class because I was unable to walk on a balance beam a few inches off the ground. Thankfully, the next year, my first grade teacher didn’t see a connection between walking on a balance beam and doing well in academic subjects. A few days into her class, after catching me writing out the answers to my seatmate’s worksheets, the teacher had me tested and moved me to an accelerated group. 

My inability to succeed in trials of body coordination continued through high school where I squeezed out a D in gymnastics in phys-ed. Enduring those trials was required, and while they never improved my coordination or my athleticism, I learned a valuable lesson: enduring was a thing I could do—something, in fact, that I had a great capacity for.

Much later, as a near 40-year-old in full midlife crisis, I decided to embrace the idea of testing myself physically: I would run a marathon. This proved to be the perfect challenge for me, as I had been engaged in endurance training in one form or another all my life. In preparation I joined charity running groups and raised money for a few causes. I did half of my training alone and half with the charity teams. During group practices, which started with two-mile jogs and peaked at twenty-two-mile runs, I typically found myself in the middle of the pack. I fit right in. No one in any of my training groups was very young or a very serious athlete. Everyone was simply challenging themselves to a personal best. 

Enduring those trials was required, and while they never improved my coordination or my athleticism, I learned a valuable lesson: enduring was a thing I could do—something, in fact, that I had a great capacity for.

I ran five marathons in five years, along with a few “halfs” and some shorter races. Though slow, I always finished. And I collected more shiny medals, more colorful and prettier than the academic sort, each a representation of the marathon’s host city, and serving as reminders of the trips taken to San Diego, Scottsdale, Honolulu. Each time I looked at those, I was reminded of a catalog of  surprise pleasures found during my training sessions: the tiny blue butterflies in the local hills; the day I watched four deer outpace me in the wilderness chaparral; all the audiobooks I listened to as I clocked the endless miles. All my beloved chances for observation within and without. 

Although I continued to jog and hike almost daily, by the time I was in my mid-50s, my thyroid no longer functioned, and my weight increased continuously. I gained forty pounds in a single year. I was advised by a friend who was a phys-ed teacher that the weight and the pounding of running would put too much strain on my knees. Instead of running, I took long walks and hikes into the hills, but I still felt the need for some kind of vigorous activity to replace the jogging. On an irregular basis, I had taken exercise classes at the city recreation center. When I checked their schedule, I saw a new class advertised: kickboxing. The description said there would be no actual boxing, but rather kicking and punching into a thickly padded shield held by a sparring partner. The purpose of the class was to get into shape while having fun. I decided to try it. 

Left: Waddle at the finish line at the San Diego marathon in 2003; Right: mid-course at the Rock “N’ Roll Marathon, Arizona, in 2008.

On the evening of the first meeting, a roomful of twenty women gathered. While I appeared to be the oldest, none were younger than their mid-30s. It was fun pulling on boxing gloves, punching into a pad, and learning to stand and kick out. Dealing with the muscle-bound teacher, not so much. “Teacher” might not be the right word. She seemed to have mistaken herself for a drill sergeant at an army boot camp.

Much later, as a near 40-year-old in full midlife crisis, I decided to embrace the idea of testing myself physically: I would run a marathon. This proved to be the perfect challenge for me, as I had been engaged in endurance training in one form or another all my life.

Unlike most of the other women in the class, I didn’t come with a partner. While waiting for the first session to begin, I made friends with a group of three women who appeared to be in their mid-40. For the first class, I paired off with them. 

After the first class, one or another of them would be absent regularly. When this happened, I’d get stuck with Sarge, who berated me about my kicking technique and then demonstrated by kicking at me as hard as she could, knocking me backward, while I held the pad. At one point, I stumbled back at a velocity too swift to catch myself and landed on the floor. (It’s probably no surprise that by the second meeting, three people quit.) 

I’m not sure if it was because I was the oldest person in the class, but Sarge took obvious pleasure in humiliating me. According to her, I neither hit nor kicked hard enough. She regularly lectured me on self-defense, chiding me for not being competent enough to protect myself in a dark alley. Here I was, a woman in late middle age, fully immersed in all the humiliation of being grabbed under the arm and yanked off the ground by my exasperated kindergarten teacher. I wasn’t the only student Sarge berated, and I tried to take solace in that. She sometimes took other women to task for their technique, or lack thereof. More women stopped showing up. One of them was from the group of three I would pair off with. 

Midway through the course, Sarge brought in a group of teenage girls who were in serious training with her. They were powerful, experienced, and talented. As pairs, they would demonstrate punching and kicking techniques to the class. Then they would make their way into the group of older recreational exercisers and proceed to kick our asses. Since I didn’t have a friend to practice with, I was paired with one of these girls each session. 

I saw a new class advertised: kickboxing. The description said there would be no actual boxing, but rather kicking and punching into a thickly padded shield held by a sparring partner. The purpose of the class was to get into shape while having fun. I decided to try it. 

More women quit. The class was half the size it had been at the beginning. I, too, wanted to quit. The course wasn’t what was advertised and was nothing like any of the exercise classes I’d taken with the recreation department previously. Summoning my capacity for endurance, I found the only reward was a slow degradation of my desire for healthy exercise. 

Victoria Waddle at 63.

Since the second week of kickboxing, I had been telling myself that I never quit anything, and I shouldn’t start now. I had to carry on through the ten weeks. Yet each Tuesday and Thursday my anxiety would mount in the hour before class. I had the same sense of roiling guts as when, as a small child, I was forced to eat slimy macaroni and cheese made with Campbell’s cheese soup, each swallowed bite rolling back up my throat and into my mouth. 

The combination of the weight I had gained and my lifelong sense of being off-balance conspired, creating in my mind a mantra of self-reproach: You do not belong with healthy, fit people.

On the eighth Tuesday class, I pushed myself once again to dress in athletic wear and drive to the city rec center. I sat in my car facing the gloaming. I was 54 years old. I didn’t want to have my ass kicked by a teenager again. Watching the gold, orange, and red of the setting sun filtered through a single long, flat cloud, something occurred to me: I didn't have to.

It wasn’t my job to be a punching bag for Sarge, who appeared to be a sociopath-in-training. There was nothing to be gained, no point to be proven. In fact, enduring this treatment was actively harming me.

Order Victoria Waddle’s short story collection.

I turned around and drove home. While the rest of the class met, I took a nap. This endurance test was over, and now I understood these tests in a way that I hadn’t, for decades. I’d spent so much of my life doing what I believed was expected, living by the mantra, “Never quit!” 

I pushed myself once again to dress in athletic wear and drive to the city rec center. I sat in my car facing the gloaming. I was 54 years old. I didn’t want to have my ass kicked by a teenager again. Watching the gold, orange, and red of the setting sun filtered through a single long, flat cloud, something occurred to me: I didn't have to.

Now I've found that walking away from intimidation is its own form of strength. I’ve learned to trust my internal signals. I created a new mantra for myself: “Does this work for me?” 

Learning to say no is an ongoing project. I am still a novice by any measure. Yet learning to quit unhealthy interactions—a class, a social media “friend” who proves not to be, a church that doesn’t feel like home—has helped me to make room for others that are positive. I have hope that other exercise classes, much more fulfilling, are on the horizon.