A month later I resigned from the sports center. I’d had an offer to move to Chicago and co-found a facility dedicated entirely to trauma-informed self-defense for women.

On my last day, Jake ambushed me in the parking lot. He shoved a plastic grocery bag into my chest, panting. “For the train ride. So you don’t starve, Coach.”

Inside: beef jerky, stale chips, a battered apple.

Then he dug into his pocket and pressed a jagged, hand-carved piece of mahogany into my palm. Woodburned into the grain was the word STRENGTH.

“See you at Nationals next year.” He grinned, blinking back tears. “I’ll tell the judges you sent me.”

Two years later, snow was hammering the reinforced glass of my Chicago gym.