Maybe She’s Born With It. Maybe’s she’s a Kaur: Hardcore.

I, like many, if not all, females who identify with being Sikh, have ‘Kaur’ as part of her name. In my case, it’s in the middle. Kaur’s literal translation is, ‘princess,’ but more accurately, ‘warrior princess.’ I know for many, the latter translation cues in the 90s sitcom that starred a woman with blunt bangs underneath which shone icy blue eyes. She had a long black mane of straight thick hair trailing down her muscular back and sported a champagne-colored coat-of-arms with circular breast plates that did nothing to feminize the brazen broad aside from keeping her in line with societal decorum. A Kaur, less subtly, is regarded as one whose inner beauty precedes her: strength of character and mind. She is agile and yet she has the ability to be aggressive.

Many historical figures are shone on horseback, a European anomaly for femininity. How dare one’s legs be spread? Historically, throughout wartime, civil strife, and religious persecution, Sikh girls and women were known to have taken their life before their honor could be tainted. Movies depicted Kaurs biting off an amulet woven around the neck, the contents of which enclosed poison, or jumping into wells. They sacrificed their life in order to not be raped.

I am an American, a Puerto Rican, Spaniard, Punjabi I, but am also part of the millenial Anglo-Saxon world in which the clever quip regarding a Kaur as “hardcore,” developed. Here begins a story: Someone threw this subtle play on transliteration of Kaur for the English vernacular in my court, and yet, I was without home court advantage. An older woman with short, cropped hair, long legs hidden underneath multicolored leggings, and a slightly curved upper back, caught my attention in the gym. She asked me how I felt about the new instructor who took over Monday’s early morning sculpt and strengthening class. The truth: that instructor was terrible. I have learned not to judge people and to give chances. The instrcutor, a professed personal trainer with colored contacts and a hood over her head that did well to cast a shadow on her face- the moniker of a Wanted sketch from cable news – talked the talk, but she couldn’t, you know, walk the walk.

She really could not walk, instead bopping, knees slightly bent, her shins staggered. This was not due to any physical impairment. Instead, she confessed to constantly dancing. I imagined how she could assess her methods for fitness as being affective. Her moves did not challenge me and her bright idea of counting down while repeatedly saying “two” before moving onto “one” and eventually “stop,” was annoying. She was a broken record and I suddenly withdrew from my old-world grasp, now welcoming Bluetooth technology in cars like mine that no longer have a CD-player that could possibly get scratched and repeatedly play the same stanza over, and over, and over. If her goal was to become efficacious at getting me out from underneath the rock I have been under, she accomplished it.

I told the woman who approached me that I did not care for the new teacher – an opinion that she shared. “There is not enough cardio,” she said. “She’s not working my body.” I agreed with the latter. The former, however, I didn’t agree to because the entire point of the class was to focus on increasing muscle mass and sculpting, not to lose fat and lean out. As someone recovering from anorexia that was the very last thing I could want, but regardless, I felt that I had to rely on my own knowledge when taking this new class. I had to work my muscles and challenge my body so that it could break before building up a stronger and more robust foothold.

Another woman passed by. She too was apprehended by the new instructor’s “bad cop,” who leaned in, and in more ways than one: She hunched over, her already curved spine rounding. She referred to me when she said, “I stopped this young woman here to ask her how she felt about the new instructor. See, I ask her because she’s like you. She is hardcore. She is really hardcore.” I was taken aback. My namesake, unbeknownst to the woman, was stamped in my mind and my memory.

Just think about a baby who begins to react to his/her name being called: the slight swivel of a head, the flicker of eyelids as he/she blinks before changing the direction of his/her gaze toward the voice. Hardcore rung in my ears like a civil service officer who glanced down at my Drivers License and was midsentence; first, describing something as “hard,” before calling me up to the counter – “Kaur!” I swapped out the idea of my abdominal area, my core, and instead thought of my middle name, Kaur.

I went to the gym for myself. I go there under due caution because in the past, I had taken advantage of the privilege of moving my body. It became compulsive.

I go there to detox – yes, perspiring is a part of the package deal, along with a free T-shirt – but I go there to free up my mind and literally remove my body from a toxic environment. Here, my mind is in overdrive because it is multitasking as I strive to become stronger. While assessing the instructor’s directions, I discern my capabilities, limitations, and at what point I can go beyond a threshold. Here is where I discover and also carve out potential, because here, I cannot follow. Here, I have to lead.

Despite not liking the mirror, growing up and thereafter, a self-proclaimed camera-phobe, I relish a spot in the space that enables me to have a clear shot of myself in the wall-to-wall mirror. I zero in on my movements and observe my face and extremities alongside others. Doing so keeps me in check: I cannot lose weight. I am here to gain muscle mass, to gain strength, to carve and to sculpt.

When I venture out to the gym, I tie my hair up into a messy knot that is so nondescript; it doesn’t even qualify as a wound up bun. Despite neither socializing nor hobnobbing with my peers, they have become a kind of inner circle insofar as I imagine feeling protective should they be subject to any digression. Still, I was taken aback that someone at the gym had noticed me. I was judged, complimentary connotation aside.

Interestingly, only a few days after being described as hardcore, I felt I have been too soft on myself. If I were hardcore, wouldn’t I have accomplished tasks? Wouldn’t I have reached milestones - stepping stones that led to a tributary where goals would eventually meet? Wouldn’t I be ok with having my favorite protein bar irrespective of what I would eat later? Wouldn’t I entertain the idea of skipping the gym and eating more that day? Couldn’t I be more spontaneous and less rigid?

Sure, coming off of a completely controlled treatment environment, weight loss is not so unfathomable. Of course, eating and not starving won’t be the cure-all to a disease that manifests in the mind, spilling into behaviors. Spikes in productivity level are a given. But here I was, and here I am, dissatisfied with not being hired- a born and raised American who attained degrees from heralded institutions, who excelled in said places, and yet was not hired since graduating with a Masters degree in hand. Here I am, sitting down in front of this laptop, facing this document, for the third time. Here I am, shooting out of the thicket that has shielded me from my paralysis. I’m enthralled by sitting at this desk, my back to three my three frame diplomas, still consumed by trying to keep myself from falling off the face of this Earth from a ravaging eating disorder, still not hired, after resumes, cover letters, edit exams, and interviews.

Perhaps I am hardcore, and that’s not a feat because falling into a type-A class, or what have you, does not necessarily mean you will produce results. I thought I was hardcore as well, that is, until my uncle by way of parental friendship told me, “Be a Punjabi girl,” before shooting his right arm into the air, index finger pointing at the sky and trilling the famed Punjabi shrill that accompanies our traditional folk song and dance, “Brrrr!” I giggled and smiled – a rarity. He said what my father says and it was like a theatrical representation of “Who Wore it Better?” “Shoot out of this gravity,” he said.

I never understood that. I am still philosophizing it. Gravity is the force of weight, its vector points toward the ground beneath our feet. When I mention gaining weight, I am directed to reframe: I am grounded. I am rooted. I’m not floating. Shoot out of this gravity. Gravity isn’t a pause – it’s not time-sensitive. It’s not a negative. Hell, two negatives make a positive. Maybe I am just being hardcore. But if it means I need to wear breastplates, I’ll take it. I am a Kaur and I am proud to be one.