I don’t know my own strength. I never have. It’s why I ended up in the headmaste

I don’t know my own strength. I never have. It’s why I ended up in the headmaster’s study when I was 8, after having thrown my hand into the air and given a little girl a black eye. It’s why I dislocated the shoulder of a player on the opposite team in a rainy rugby match, despite the handoff being entirely legal. It’s why I’m utterly unaware of my size, and what I can do with it, when you’re so very small, so very fragile. It’s easy to romanticise strength, to get lost in the idea of being thrown about, of enjoying the feeling of being a ragdoll, except you don’t want the ragged part, the part that leaves your knees grazed and your arms bruised. You don’t want that, and I want it even less so.  Knowledge comes in drips and drabs. Each mistake is another step forward, as much as it feels like a step back. It’s about slowly becoming aware of my reach, my strength, the grip of my fingers, thumb, the power in my wrists. The weight of my legs, my arms. I could squash you, little girl. I’ll try not to. -- source link

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