About a week and a half ago I took a four hour women’s self-defense class at a local Krav Maga Training center. I saw women who, with every punch and kick thrown, have a story. A raw, hot anger boiling up inside of them. Stories that I’d rather not ask about and I’m sure they’d rather not tell. Stories I’d never want to claim as my own.

My boyfriend, Chris, first told me about Krav Maga after watching an episode of How I Met Your Mother. I just moved to a big city without really knowing anyone here. We figured it would make us all a little less paranoid (especially because he’s on the other side of the country) if I knew how to defend myself.

The thing I already love about Krav Maga is the ability for it to be a serious workout that is fun. We played a version of tag. We raced. We dodged, kicked, laughed, grunted, breathed. We sweat.

I left feeling empowered.

I walked all the way home with a sense of calm and excitement. I started looking people in the face as I walked by them, acknowledging their presence. I’m guilty of staring at the sidewalk as I walk by or deadpanning past people. “Acknowledge their presence,” B, our trainer, said. “It will make them think twice about attacking you.”

I can’t wait to start going to real classes.