Becoming Kendall: A Journey Through Machismo

The Macho Man Chronicles - Volume 2

The Ordinary Life

I used to be the picture of Midwestern wholesomeness—or so they said. Curly red hair, fair skin, and a smile that could light up a Hallmark card. But beneath that polished exterior was a storm I couldn’t quiet. Anxiety, frustration, and a whole lot of pent-up dreams swirling around, amplified by my adult attention deficit disorder and the chaos of raising two kids.

Mark, my husband, was everything you'd expect from a Pontiac firefighter—loud, charming, a man’s man. But even Mark wasn’t invincible. Years of hard physical work had caught up with him. His back problems had gotten worse, and the long hours riding in the firetruck became unbearable. Eventually, he was reassigned to desk duty—office work that made him feel sidelined, like a shadow of the man he once was. Losing that sense of purpose, that authority, gnawed at him, and it showed in how distant he became at home. People loved him, and I did too… once. But somewhere along the way, his attention drifted. I became background noise in our own home. As a guidance counselor in the Pontiac School system, I found purpose in helping kids fight their own wars, but despite this, my psychology degree and devouring self-help books like they were candy, I was stuck—paralyzed by the very knowledge that should have freed me.

The Breaking Point

It’s been years since my nervous breakdown. I tried everything—yoga, meditation, pottery classes. Nothing stuck. Even after breaking my femur, I jumped back into work too soon, burning out after four brutal months. I was spinning my wheels, and the harder I tried, the deeper I sank.

My sister, bless her heart, was a self-help junkie. “Kendall, you need to read this book about finding your inner peace,” she'd say, pushing another hardcover into my hands. Sure, because reading more was going to magically fix me.

Skip, my old friend, had his own take. “Women cheat to leave marriages; men cheat to stay in them,” he’d joke, giving me that look that said he wasn’t entirely kidding. “Maybe you need something drastic to shake things up.”

The Pentecost Experience

Desperation drove me to a Pentecostal revival. The room was electric—people praying, shouting, crying. It felt like I'd stumbled into a karaoke night hosted by the Holy Spirit. I half-expected someone to pass me a tambourine and a setlist.

When the preacher called for deliverance, I stepped forward, surrounded by people speaking in tongues. One woman next to me started shaking so hard I thought she might actually levitate. Another man fell to the ground, clutching his chest like he’d just been hit by divine lightning. And me? I just stood there, feeling like the only person who hadn’t studied for the big spiritual exam.

The preacher locked eyes with me. "Sister, do you feel the spirit moving in you?" he bellowed.

I nodded awkwardly. "Sure, I think so. Maybe."

He placed his hand on my forehead, and I braced myself for... something. But nothing happened. No visions, no holy goosebumps. Just me, standing there with sweaty palms and a growing sense of buyer’s remorse.

I waited, and when nothing earth-shattering occurred, I blurted out, "Is it supposed to feel like static electricity or more like a caffeine buzz?"

He blinked. I blinked. The moment passed.

For a second, I thought I felt something—energy, power. But it vanished as quickly as it came, leaving me more lost than ever. I shuffled back to my seat, avoiding eye contact with the woman now sobbing into a tissue. Maybe divine intervention just wasn’t in the cards for me.

The Crazy Therapy Approach

Then came the therapist with the foam sword. His office smelled like incense and old books. But what really caught me off guard was his outfit—a mismatched ensemble of a paisley vest over a faded tie-dye shirt, cargo pants tucked into mismatched socks, and a long, flowing scarf that seemed to have no purpose whatsoever. He looked like a wizard who got lost on his way to Electric Forest in Rothbury, Michigan—a place I knew well after attending with my college friends back in the day.

“We’re doing something different today,” he said, handing me combat gear. “Attack your fears!”

I should’ve walked out. Instead, I swung that ridiculous foam sword at imaginary dragons, and for the first time in months, I laughed—hard. Maybe this madness was exactly what I needed.

Machismo, But Make It Female

Skip's words haunted me. I didn’t need an affair, but maybe I needed that raw energy. The boldness. So, I leaned in.

Leather jackets, red lipstick, heels that clicked with authority. I started lifting weights, not to shrink but to grow stronger. Boxing gloves replaced my knitting needles. Each punch chipped away at the invisible walls I’d built.

And at home? I stopped tiptoeing. Mark either noticed me, or he didn’t—but I wasn’t going to stay invisible.

The Machismo Transformation

The idea of buying a motorcycle had been simmering in my mind for a while. Skip rode one of those flashy crotch rockets, but that was never my style. I wasn’t looking for speed—I wanted grit, power, and freedom. The kind of presence only a Harley could offer. But before I could even think about buying a bike, I knew I needed to learn how to ride one. So, I walked into the Harley-Davidson dealership near Pontiac and signed up for their motorcycle riding class. The guys running the program took one look at me—a woman still carrying extra weight from my leg surgery, dressed in a leather jacket with eyes full of determination—and grinned.

"You've got spunk," one of them chuckled, handing me a helmet. "Let’s see if you’ve got the guts to match."

The classes were brutal at first. I stalled the bike, fumbled the clutch, and nearly tipped over more times than I could count. But I stuck with it. Every wobble, every near fall, made me more determined. By the end of the course, I wasn’t just passing the test—I was owning it.

After a class one evening, one of the instructors, Mike, leaned in and said, "If you’re serious about this, don’t waste money on a brand-new bike. Find yourself a used Sportster on Facebook Marketplace. They’re reliable and won’t empty your wallet. In fact, if you want, I can help you check a few out."

I didn’t hesitate. Mike knew his bikes better than anyone, and I wasn’t about to make a rookie mistake. Over the next few weekends, he joined me in checking out several listings. Some were rust buckets barely holding together, others were overpriced for what they were. But then we found it—a black Harley-Davidson Sportster 883. $3,500. Mike ran his hands over the handlebars, checking the engine, the tires, everything. He gave me a nod. "This one’s solid. You’ll get good miles out of her."

That was all I needed. Mike even helped me negotiate the price. I wasn’t sure about anything, but Mike gave me the confidence to seal the deal.

I couldn’t afford it outright, not with the bills and the kids, but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. I went to the bank and took out a 60-month loan. The payments would be tight, but it was doable. Barely. I signed the papers with hands that trembled but a heart that felt steady for the first time in years.

Bringing it home felt surreal. Mark barely looked up when I pulled into the driveway, the Harley rumbling beneath me. Maybe he thought it was just another phase. But as I ran my hands over the sleek, black frame, I knew this wasn’t a phase. This was my escape, my rebellion. I called her Freedom Machine.

My first ride? A disaster. I forgot to kick up the stand, and as I gave it some throttle, the bike jerked and toppled over with me on it. The metallic crash echoed down the block, and I could feel the neighbors' eyes burning into me from behind their curtains.

My face turned redder than my hair, but then—I laughed. A deep, belly-aching laugh that shook something loose inside me. I hadn’t laughed like that in years. So, I dusted myself off, yanked the bike upright, and tried again.

I joined a biker club. They called me Red Fury, and for the first time in my life, it felt like I belonged. The wind, the road, the roar of the engine—it was mine.

The Resolution

I didn’t wake up fearless, but I woke up fighting.

One night, I stood in front of Mark. “Mark, we need to talk. I deserve more than this. I need you—really need you—to be here. Be my partner, not just some guy in the background.”

He blinked, surprised. Maybe he heard me for the first time. Maybe not. But I said it. And that was enough for now.

The Challenge Ride

Months later, I organized a charity ride with my biker crew for women’s shelters. I led the pack, my bike roaring beneath me, the wind tearing through my hair.

And there, on the sidelines, was Mark. Watching. Really watching. Not his wife, but a woman on fire. Maybe, just maybe, he finally saw me.

Epilogue: Kendall's New World

Funny how life turns. My sister took up boxing. My therapist? He keeps foam swords in his office now. And Mark? He rides with me sometimes.

I didn’t just change—I claimed myself. Turns out, all I needed was a little leather, a lot of grit, and yes—a whole lot of machismo.