Tuesday, December 16, 2025

Wanna Fight?

I recently earned my black belt in Brazilian Jiu Jitsu—something I’ve worked toward for years. What’s funny is that the deeper I’ve gone into the world of fighting, the less I’ve actually wanted to fight.

It sounds counterintuitive, but it’s true:
The more you train as a fighter, the less interested you become in physical confrontation.

Why?

Because real fighting—outside the mat—is almost always born from ego-driven anger. And the root of anger, when we boil it down, is fear. Fear of being disrespected. Fear of being embarrassed. Fear of feeling small, weak, or vulnerable.

But training dissolves that fear.
Hour after hour on the mats teaches you where your limits actually are. It strips away the insecurity that fuels aggression. When you’re comfortable being tested—when you’ve been choked, arm-barred, smashed, and still come back smiling—your ego quiets down. Suddenly, there’s no need to “prove” anything.

No fear, no anger.
No anger, no need to fight.

And as strange as it may sound, this applies just as much off the mat.

The resentments we carry in life are simply anger we’ve decided to hold onto. They’re rooted in the same fears: fear of being wronged, overlooked, dismissed, or unloved. In recovery, the steps guide us toward confronting those fears directly—dragging them into the light so they can’t control us anymore.

Once the fear is addressed, the anger evaporates.

And with the anger gone, we finally get to breathe. We get to walk through the world lighter, calmer, less reactive.
We get to be free.

My black belt in sobriety has made me a better human being—one who doesn’t have to fight at all.





Tuesday, December 2, 2025

Regrets, I've had a few.

Someone once asked me, “If you could go back and change one thing in your life, what would it be?”

For years, that question haunted me. I’ve made mistakes. I’ve hurt people I care about. And like a lot of us, I’ve carried the quiet fear that my worst choices define me.

We say good people do bad things — but does that make them bad? And if bad people occasionally do good, does that suddenly make them good?

What I’ve come to understand is simple: being human means falling short. The dividing line isn’t perfection; it’s desire.

A good person wants to change. They feel their impact, seek to repair damage, and aim to grow. A bad person doesn’t. It’s not about spotless behavior — it’s about willingness.

Science tells us that every 7–10 years, our cells regenerate. Physically, we become someone new. Sobriety says something similar: after working the steps, we’re spiritually renewed — reborn into a life with intention and clarity.

Ironically, I can forgive anyone who asks… but not myself.

But I’m learning. I’m a good person who did some bad things — and that good person deserves grace, too.

So what would I change if I could go back?
Nothing. I deeply regret my mistakes, but I value the growth they inspired. My missteps carved the path to the man I am today.

And I like who I have become.