Coach’s Testimonial
Our egos have a cunning way of convincing us that we’re special or important in the grand scope of life. Driven by ego throughout my twenties, I spent every waking minute trying to convince myself—and everyone else—that I was unique, a rare specimen, someone whose brilliance had been overlooked, yet to be discovered. Sounds like a great guy, right? But beneath this facade, I very much disliked myself.
It’s difficult to like yourself when you only think about yourself all the time. When you strut around the world trying to convince others that you’re interesting, only fools find it attractive. Desperately, I entered and left every conversation hoping the person I was talking to would walk away thinking, That guy is going to do big things. But the truth was, I had done nothing—nothing important. The greatest thing I ever created was the facade I hid behind, and maintaining that facade was a full-time job. I constantly had to be in tune with others' perceptions.
What are they thinking?
What do they think of me?
Can they tell that I’m scared out of my mind right now? Scared that they might see just how much I hate myself?
Everything comes at a cost. If you pretend to be interesting full-time, the cost is that you never get to be yourself. Luckily—or so I thought—there’s a medication that at least made me feel like I could be myself. That medication was alcohol, and my nightly dosage was heavy.
Maybe you enjoy a glass of wine to wind down at the end of the night. Nothing wrong with that. I used to wind down with a bottle—and wine nights were the chill nights. Most nights, I downed 3-5 shots of 100-proof Rittenhouse Rye with 7% ABV IPAs in between. Many mornings, I found myself watching the sunrise sway over the Manhattan skyline from the back of a cab I could barely afford. I took it because I was too drunk and impatient to take the train.
The COVID pandemic took away the burden of working, so I started boozing in the early afternoons. I then moved to Austin and quickly adopted its rich culture of getting plastered—for much cheaper than in Manhattan.
Booze provided a heavenly outlet where I could let go and be myself. The rest of the day, though, was miserable and empty, consumed by hangovers. Being sober during the day had its downfalls too. I was terrified that the facade might all come crashing down at any moment. That people might actually see me for what I was—a scared loser. I’m sure many did. But when I drank, I didn’t have to care. I didn’t care.
It can be dangerous not to care. I learned this one night after running my drunken mouth to another guy who was three times my size. He had not only size on his side but also the internal courage it takes to be spontaneously violent—something I generally lacked. I barely avoided getting my ass kicked, but it didn’t matter. The violent drunk exposed me for what I was—a cowardly drunk, far from the “interesting” renaissance man I worked so hard to be. I drove home drunk that night with a troubled mind, knowing something had to change. I had to change. I knew I wanted to be more than a drunken loser.
Why did my mind go to martial arts? I believe it was divine intervention. Idiotic as I had been, I knew I needed discipline—something physically demanding that would at least make me cut back on drinking. I also needed something that would teach me how to defend myself. What I found, unexpectedly, was something that would teach me how to respect myself.
I knew nothing about martial arts aside from a year of Tae Kwon Do in third grade. I literally Googled “best martial arts for self-defense” and watched YouTube videos on the different styles. Muay Thai stood out to me. It seemed vicious but lacked the trash-talking, tough-guy mentality. The fighters seemed to respect one another. It seemed honorable. I was drawn to that. I looked up the best Muay Thai gym in my area and booked a trial the following week.
I feared every bit of showing up, but I knew I had to go—and, more importantly, I had to sign up. Timidly, I learned the basics: jab, cross, hook, rear kick, and a knee. Then, drenched in sweat, I sat down to sign my contract. I remember not even caring about the price. I just remember thinking, This—Muay Thai—has to be the thing that turns everything around.
I made the greatest investment of my life that day.
Was I a natural? No.
Did I quit drinking overnight? No.
Did everything get better immediately? No.
But with each consistent day of training, I gathered the tools to turn my life around and discover who I truly was.
I learned that weakness is defined by your ability to lie to yourself. I learned that, as a human, I am capable of being humbled, of growing stronger, and of becoming more. Like any great investment, the return comes slow—and it needs to. If the value had all come at once, I wouldn’t have known what to do with it. The return only comes when the investment is wise and consistent—when you dedicate the time and effort to learn what you’re investing in. You have to learn from the losses as much as the wins. There will be plenty of both.
When I made the decision that Muay Thai was going to change my life, I underestimated its impact. I can’t express how grateful I am for it. I’m so grateful that I feel a new discipline, a responsibility to teach this beautiful sport because I understand its transformational power.
Fear is part of it. There is no courage without fear. Facing that fear is the first step in overcoming whatever you’re going through.
I can’t promise that Muay Thai will change your life the way it changed mine. But I can say this: If you approach this sport properly, with respect and honor, it will challenge you to become more than what you are today. Your effort, time, and money are the cost, but the reward is infinitely valuable. You find the true you. The choice to embrace this new person is the first decision you’ll make on that journey.