In achieving my goal of becoming a cage fighter, Frost gave me the assignment of writing about my cage dreams, and he told me start from the moment my hand is raised in the cage. So here is what I came up with:
I can feel blood dripping down my face. I think its source is near my eyebrow. I can feel a swell on my right cheek. Thankfully my nose, which was my biggest worry, is intact. My opponent was strong and we were well-matched. I will hug her and congratulate her in a moment. I will shake hands with her coaches. I am grateful that she took the challenge. We fought well, but there is only one winner. Today, that's me.
I stand triumphant, hand raised. The hand raising mine is one of the only things keeping me standing. I hear screaming; I hear my name being called. But everything is a blur. Nothing seems real. My feet are flat on the floor, but I seem to be floating away. I worked hard for this moment, and now it's mine. I look toward my corner, at my coaches waiting for me. I try to make out a section of the crowd, and I know my teammates are there, waiting for me. I correct myself - we worked hard for this moment, and now it's ours.
I am 39 years old, a mom of four kids, and a teacher. I stand in the cage this moment and think back to four years ago. I sat, timid and wide-eyed, waiting for each coach's answer. One by one, I told four men that I wanted to be a cage fighter. I told them that it sounded crazy, and I knew it. One by one, they listened - really listened - to my story. I told them sincerely what made me want to do this. One by one, they all said yes.
Things were hard. Recently divorced, finances tight, time to train scarce, I had to work very hard to make good on simple commitments. That first year after the divorce was the hardest. I felt depressed and defeated, but often never told anyone. I was facing so many obstacles that there were times I never thought I'd reach my goals. My dream seemed far away and unreachable. I felt like a failure at everything: being a mom, teacher, and at training.
There was a day that winter when the ink on the divorce papers was still fresh. The temperature was near freezing. It had rained and my little unattached garage, which housed my washer and dryer, was flooded. The kids and I needed clean clothes, so I had no choice but to wade barefoot into the freezing water and do laundry. I wanted to cry out to someone, to anyone, but I was alone in that garage and standing in water. Again and again, through several loads of laundry, I waded through the water. Each time I returned into the house, I would dry my feet and begin some other chore or take care of a need for the kids. I was in such pain that day; I felt so defeated and discouraged.
It became harder and harder to only show the positive, and that day was like a milestone marker to me. I had to let myself have my hard days. I had to forgive myself for being capable of doing only so much. I had to let that year be my year of grace and healing. It wouldn't last forever. Things could be much worse. So I had a flooded garage. So what? So what if I was living paycheck to paycheck, and sometimes not even that. There were weeks when milk and bread were a luxury. But did we have food on the table? Clothes to wear? Modest, yes, and there were no extras, but we were blessed. Beyond blessed. At the drop of a hat, I knew there were ten people I could call for help, and they would help me. I had overcome much, much more than wading through a flooded garage to do laundry. I was strong enough to keep going.
I kept a list of my goals and my plan taped to my kitchen cabinets. I looked at them every day. I knew that I had said them out loud. I had made them real. My coaches had helped me write it all out, and I had two versions taped up: their handwritten ones and ones I had typed. On each paper, I had drawn the shape of the octagon.
Most important for me was to have my children involved in the process. I remember sitting the kids down, looking them all in the eye, and telling them about Mom's dream. I asked them all, "Will you do this with me? Will you spend an extra couple of hours at the gym with me?"
I knew that if the kids weren't on board, I couldn't do it. My little fan club. They came with me to karate and bjj practice. On the nights they weren't with me, I went to MMA classes. I trained for tournaments and needed the mat time. As training times became more intense, especially during fight camp, I enlisted people to help me with the kids. I asked the right people for help, and they helped me. People that could see this was my dream, but it was something far bigger than me. People that help the kids see that their mom was strong, and that they were strong, too. I needed a community to support me. I was never alone. This will never be only my achievement.
My coaches never gave up on me, never stopped believing in me. My coaches never stopped reminding me that this was my dream, that I had told them I wanted it.
"You gotta show me, Miss Amy! You gotta show me you want it," they would say, each time I trained.
And I did. I trained, harder and harder. The weight came off, though it was a struggle. I got stronger. I sacrificed sleep. I had injuries and sore muscles. But I was coachable. All I had ever wanted to be was coachable.
I asked Mr. Jordan once what I could do to be more coachable.
"Miss Amy," he said, "just the fact that you are asking that question shows me that you are. But we will see how coachable you are when we start a fight camp."
Fight camp seemed a million years and miles away. I told my coaches four years prior to my fight that it's what I wanted. I will never forget the week that I told them all and got the ok. I told Mr. Robert first. I wasn't sure that he wanted to hear what I had to say, but I had to say it: "I want to be in the cage. I really do."
He told me that I had to get the OK from the other three coaches, and for three days I cried at home. I thought that telling Robert and beginning the journey would make me feel better, but he had shared with me some harsh realities: some people don't believe women should be in this sport; some people will ridicule you and make things hard for you. Elite had never trained a woman for cage fighting. The other coaches might say no.
They didn't say no. Frost liked the idea that I knew it was going to be a community effort; Julian wanted me to train more jiu jitsu, but he understood my limited time just then. He said he was enrolled and was ready to start training when I was.
I remember telling Jordan that I wanted to do this because I had seen my teammates train and I saw that it was something bigger than an individual. I told him that I wanted my kids to see that their mom was a strong lady; that if she wanted to be a cage fighter, why couldn't she? It was a long and liberating conversation, and at the end of it, Mr. Jordan said, "Miss Amy, I knew what you wanted when you came in here to talk to me, and I was going to say no, but your words have changed my mind."
Four years ago that conversation took place. Four years have gone by and my kids have grown; Eliza is 16 now. I am older and my face is showing it, but my body is strong. So is my spirit. I trained jiu jitsu harder and harder over those years, advancing at the help of my coaches. I focused and was coachable and did a fight camp for six weeks. And now . . .
And now . . . four years later, here I stand, and my arm is raised. I know that the people I love are waiting for me. My coaches will hug me. My children, four shining faces, I can see them outside the cage from the corner of my eye. They are waiting to tackle me when I step foot outside the cage. Four long years of doubt met with belief, fear met with courage, a community who believes that no one is in it alone . . . this moment, my hand in the air . . . this is for all of us.
