I’ve spent most of my life being devoured by heart-exploding anxiety. “Doing scary things” has meant stuff like being out after dark and calling someone on the phone. It has never, for one minute, meant fist fighting in front of a crowd of people.

But a while ago I decided to try countering the anxiety by doing new stuff. With that in mind, I went to a boxing class. At worst, I figured, I could write a column about being a middle-aged mother in a young man’s world.

It was nothing like that. Boxing demands that you do it over and over. You hit a heavy bag and you think, oh wow, that solved at least five of my problems. You get sweaty and furious and the people around you are sweaty and furious and you think, if I punch hard enough, nothing will ever hurt me again.

I needed more. I chose a nearby gym and boxed two days a week, then six days a week. I felt as though I had discovered something about myself that had always been true. When the gym management decided to run a fight night, I didn’t think twice. Not thinking is how a lot of Future Anna’s trouble starts but she simply chickens out and goes into witness protection. Even as I said yes, I don’t think I believed I would step into the ring.

For six weeks, I trained like a fighter. I skipped. I shadowboxed. I rolled and slipped and pivoted and shuffled and sidestepped, threw straights and hooks and........

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