Where Is My Boxer?

I used to think I wanted to become a boxer.

The evidence was convincing enough. One of my father's friends was a boxing coach, and in those days, boxing was everywhere. Big fights drew crowds. Champions became household names. The sport had a certain electricity about it.

Whenever he visited, he brought his training gloves. He would hold them up and ask me to throw punches, teaching me how to move my feet before I learned how to move my hands. Looking back, it was my first lesson: power begins with balance.

The moment I knew he was around, I would disappear into my room, pull on my shorts, a T-shirt, and my sporting shoes, running out before anyone had the chance to call me.

Sometimes he would call out first.

"Where is my boxer?"

That was all the invitation I needed. For those few minutes, I was entirely convinced that this was who I was going to become.

Children have an endearing habit of mistaking delight for destiny.

A few years later, the dream shifted. This time it was medicine. I wanted to become a doctor, and the strange thing was that everyone else seemed to think it fit. It was spoken of with such confidence that it felt like a settled matter. If you had asked me then, I would have told you I was born for it.

Life, however, had other plans.

Today, I am neither a doctor nor a boxer. If you handed me a pair of gloves, I would spend more energy trying to remember the footwork than throwing a punch.

And yet, I cannot say those dreams were mistakes.

For a long time, I thought boxing and medicine had nothing in common. One wore gloves. The other wore a white coat. Only years later did I realise they were both answers to the same question.

Somewhere inside that little boy was a quiet longing to matter in the lives of other people. Boxing looked like a way. Medicine looked like a way. Neither turned out to be the destination.

As the years unfolded, I discovered that a calling is often deeper than the titles we attach to it. We see the uniform before we understand the purpose. We chase the occupation while the heart is quietly searching for the contribution.

The names changed, but the longing stayed.

I smile now when I think of the coach calling out, "Where is my boxer?"

He could not have known that he was training something other than a fighter.

Neither could I.

Before you move on, pause for a moment. Looking back at the dreams you chased growing up, what was the uniform you saw, and what was the contribution your heart was actually searching for?

Nugget

Some childhood dreams are not destinations. They are signposts, quietly pointing us towards the life we were always meant to live.