The Fight Was Easy. Figuring Out What’s Next—Not So Much.
The fight gave me new levels of discipline and devotion. Now I need a reason to keep them.
The fight was everything I worked for. I said I was going to retire after this, maybe try pickleball or tennis—you know, something that requires fewer hits to the head. And so this forty-seven-day camp of obsessive training, including hundreds of rounds of sparring and countless hours of preparation, all led to this one culminating moment.
The only reason I signed up for this fight was because I couldn’t ignore the nagging voice in my head calling me a coward for not taking it in the first place. What are you, a fucking pussy? I was terrified because the event was to be at my home gym, the place where everyone knows me, where I’m not just a fighter but a coach. What if I failed in front of them? What if I couldn’t live up to the version of myself they believed in? My reputation would be on the line. Losing would definitively realize my imposter syndrome. But that’s exactly why I took the fight—to confront it. To prove to myself that I could walk boldly into the pressure, into the fear of failing in front of everyone, and come out the other side. That confrontation drove me, pushing me through every extra round and every moment of doubt.
On Fight Night, I stepped into the ring ready, focused, and confident. I repeated the mantra I’d been reciting for the last two months: “I’m built for this.” And I was. The fight itself was easy—a direct result of the sacrifices I made and the discipline I built over the last five years of practice and preparation. When the referee stopped the bout and raised my hand for a TKO victory, I was on top of the world. For a few glorious hours, nothing else mattered.
But then the next day came.
Victory’s Strange Aftermath
I had lunch with my cousin the day after the fight. It was grounding—a chance to talk about something other than boxing and remind myself that life exists outside the gym. But once the plates were cleared and we said goodbye, the rest of the day stretched out before, clear but disquieting, like an empty street after the fog has lifted. I didn’t know what to do or where to go next. For the past two months, every moment of my life had been dictated by the fight. Now that it was over, I was left asking myself a question I didn’t have an answer to: What now?
Without knowing where else to go, I walked right back to the gym. Not to train—it felt strange to step into the ring the day after a fight—but just to sit there. I watched as others went through their routines, the familiar sounds of gloves hitting bags echoing through the space. The gym has always been my anchor, the place I turn to for comfort. But sitting there that day, it felt different. I wasn’t preparing, I wasn’t coaching, I wasn’t doing anything. I was just there, because I didn’t know what else to do.
When Everything Points Back to One Reason
For two months, my life had clear structure and purpose. Every decision I made—what to eat, when to sleep, how to spend my time—revolved around this fight. Living with that level of discipline was transformative. It taught me how powerful it feels to live with intention, even if the purpose itself was as specific and time-bound as preparing for a six-minute amateur bout. But when it ended, so did the structure that had scaffolded my days. Without it, I felt unmoored, unsure of how to regain that sense of clarity.
I've rarely lived life with this kind of concentrated purpose. Sure, I work hard, show up, and set goals, but nothing compared to the drive I felt during these past two months. Every day I had a singular focus: prepare for the fight. It wasn’t just about the boxing itself—it was the discipline, the consistency, and the way every decision I made felt intentional to bring me one step closer to victory. That kind of devotion changes you.
It makes me wonder: what if I could live like this all the time? What if every day could be fueled by that same level of focus and hard work, even when my name isn’t on some future fight card? Maybe it’s not sustainable, or maybe it’s just a matter of finding a purpose worth committing to. Whatever it is, this experience taught me what’s possible when I’m truly all-in, and that’s a lesson I’m not ready to let go of.
So What the Hell Comes Next?
As for whether I’ll take another fight, I don’t know. The idea of stepping back into the ring is comforting in its familiarity. Training gives me structure and purpose, a clear reason to wake up and push myself. There’s something grounding about knowing exactly what to focus on each day. But I also know the toll boxing takes. Thousands of rounds of sparring, and that means thousands of hits to the head—it’s not sustainable. Winning by TKO in front of 400-plus people felt like the perfect way to close this chapter of my life, and maybe it’s time to honor that.
At the same time, the lessons boxing has given me—discipline, toughness, intention, devotion—don’t have to stay in the ring. What drives me is the possibility of applying those lessons to something new. What scares me is not knowing what that next something could be.
Maybe I’ll fight again, maybe I won’t. Either way, I know I’m not done chasing that feeling of clarity and purpose. For now, I guess I’ll have to keep my gloves close by—just in case.
