Can I Kick It? Finding Strength, Release, and Community Through Kickboxing in Walnut Creek

I was a walking fireball around this time last year.

After separating from my husband, I moved back to the East Bay with my kids following a two-year stint in Santa Barbara. We had lived in Martinez before that, and I grew up in Oakland, so the Bay Area has always been my village. Still, returning under these circumstances brought a level of emotional intensity I wasn’t prepared for.

The anger surprised me. Not just anger toward my ex-husband, but anger at life itself. Divorce is one of those curveballs that can pull the rug out from under your feet, and when it does, it can make you very, very mad.

Anger isn’t an emotion I’m particularly comfortable sitting with. I consider myself an optimist—a creative problem-solver and adaptable adult who has lived and traveled many places, always finding my footing. But this phase was different. Whenever the anger surfaced, my heart raced and my jaw clenched. I needed to get it out of my body. I wanted to scream. I wanted to punch something.

I knew the healthiest way to navigate this period was to lean heavily on my self-care toolbox, though that was easier said than done while also supporting my kids, who were grieving their own version of loss.

One day, while scrolling Instagram, I saw an ad for KickHouse Walnut Creek. I had done kickboxing years earlier—Tae Bo classes in my teens and time at a boxing gym in Venice Beach in my 30s—and remembered how effective it had been at releasing stress. I wondered if it could work the same way in my 40s.

KickHouse offers a mix of cardio, HIIT, strength training, mobility, and kickboxing, with multiple class types designed for all fitness levels. I signed up for a free “Classic Kick” class.

I was instructed to arrive early to meet my coach and get set up. Walking past the studio windows, I saw large white punching bags staggered throughout the open gym space. Nervous but excited, I was greeted by friendly faces, given a pair of gloves, and fitted with a heart-rate monitor.

The class style is rooted in Muay Thai-inspired kickboxing. As the music kicked up and the coach called out combinations, I quickly fell into rhythm. Punch, kick, repeat. My pulse rose—not from emotional stress, but from movement. Sweat poured as my fighter instinct took over.

Between rounds on the bag, we cycled through strength intervals—squats, push-ups, burpees—the tough but necessary work. Endorphins did their job. I smiled more than I expected. When I glanced at the heart-rate monitor screen, I was solidly in the orange zone: working hard but not overwhelmed.

During a power drill, I imagined the source of all my pent-up stress. That visualization pushed me into the red zone—and it felt cathartic rather than destructive.

The class ended with a stretch, my heart rate settling back into the green. I lingered afterward, soaking in the calm. My coach offered encouragement, and I left feeling lighter than I had in months.

I signed up for a membership and kept coming back. Over time, my body changed. I felt stronger, calmer, and more confident. While kickboxing wasn’t the only personal growth work I was doing, it became a reliable outlet—somewhere I could safely release what my body was holding.

Whenever the anger bubbled up again, I knew exactly where to go.

This essay originally appeared in Walnut Creek City Lifestyle.