The Laws of the Ring (22 page)

The 31st Law of Power

Block out Fear

T
here are only two things that you have to do in life: You have to die, and you have to live until you die. The rest is up to you.
(A word on fear.)

I have not experienced fear in the cage. Many people have a hard time believing this, since they expect fear to be an inevitable part of my job. They believe I can overcome it, but never experiencing it is too much for them to grasp. It's true, though. Fighters who fear the fight have short, rough careers, and my fears are offset by my persistent mind-set and positive attitude.

The fears of a fighter are the same as those of most people in the world, except the physical risk a fighter faces is obviously greater. I fear not having financial security in my old age, or for the health and well-being of loved ones around me. On a more mundane level, I fear turbulence when I'm flying in a plane. I absolutely hate it. I don't know whether it's a control issue or what, but I hate nothing more than sitting in an airplane that's bouncing through the sky.

On a deeper level, I fear that my ability to enjoy life in my later years will be compromised by the physical toll fighting is taking on my body. This, I guess, is where my fears veer from those of most people. There is a paradox in my life: I eat healthy foods, live a healthy lifestyle, but then I willingly engage in one of the riskiest behaviors known to man. I build my body up between fights only to break it down again, and then repeat the process. As I head toward my midthirties, I can't help but see the irony of my situation. By all rights, I should live to be a hundred years old with what I choose to put into my body and the ridiculous amount of training I put in. But then, on the other side, there is the elephant in the room: the pounding and punishment necessary to make a living as an MMA fighter. It's difficult to reconcile the two, but I believe the ability to push themselves past the pain and the possibility of serious health problems in the future is a quality unique to fighters and football players and others who put themselves at physical risk. We get past these realities because we know they come with the business. It helps that the people I'm talking about do not fear the unknown. Part of the reason I don't fear getting hurt in the cage is precisely because I have
been
hurt in the cage. I've gone from consciousness to unconsciousness in my life—it's not that bad.

Fear is the biggest roadblock to creating a life that revolves around your passion. The fear can be of failure or of the unknown. It can manifest itself as procrastination or self-doubt. When you're looking to make a bold move and change your life, fear can be paralyzing.

On the other hand, the loss of fear can be motivating, even intoxicating. Some of history's most successful people—artists, inventors, political figures—have achieved greatness only after throwing caution to the wind. They've sacrificed short-term security for something far more important. Their fierce passion can also be seen as a bold stand against fear.

Again, the most dangerous people are those with the least to lose.

Obviously we're dealing here with fear and its consequences on a much smaller scale than the Middle Eastern insurgents who sacrificed their lives for a greater cause dealt with in the spring of 2011, but the truth is, you have to ask yourself, What do I have to lose? I don't mean to make light of desperate situations, but if your life is miserable and lacking in passion, your risk might be less than you think. Financial security is important, sure, but at what cost? Again, it all comes back to the saying that runs through my head whenever I'm faced with a big decision:

There are only two things that you have to do in life: You have to die, and you have to live until you die. The rest is up to you.

Think about the last line:
The rest is up to you.
Not your parents or your boss or your social group. Your decisions should not be influenced by what society dictates as “normal” or “prestigious.” Live for you. If you live in fear and your mind is constantly hounded by worst-case scenarios that keep you from making the changes you need to make, then you're just living the life of quiet desperation that Thoreau wrote about. To get out and live—to really live—you need to
control
fear.

You begin to control fear by having confidence. Now, I understand that some people are naturally confident, but those people perhaps have an even greater dilemma in that they have to guard against overconfidence. (It's also important to note that bragging and blustering are often signs of insecurity and
a lack of
confidence.) If you lack confidence, a far more widespread affliction, you need to find ways to build it up. This is actually not as difficult as it sounds. I have a few simple methods I use to help build an inner confidence in those who need it. But even those who
don't think
they need help in building confidence should take note of the following.

My first step is to remind myself that I won't go without.

I
have a favorite training run that takes me out the door of my Ultimate Fitness Gym in downtown Sacramento and northwest about twelve blocks toward the American River. I run until the road—Twenty-first Street—dead-ends in the silt-soft riverbed. From there, I run along the railroad tracks and through a homeless encampment that sits under a railroad bridge. It's a small-scale tent city, home to approximately fifty people.

I choose this route during times that are particularly hectic or stressful. The river provides solace and beauty, but following this path is about more than peace and scenery: The people who live in the tent city, people who have been pushed to society's margins, serve as an inspiration to me.

Don't misunderstand; I'm not reveling in their misfortune. Quite the opposite. From the first time I ran into their “neighborhood,” I was taken by the adaptability and positive attitudes the residents manifest.

The first time I took this run was during the days when I was training for my first fight with Jens Pulver, in June of 2008. With my mind preoccupied by a thousand things on a sunny day in late spring, I ran through the dead end and out to the railroad tracks. When I noticed the tents, my first thought was that I was running into a sad and desolate place. But the more I looked, the more vibrant I noticed the place was.

I slowed, then stopped. I watched a guy, probably in his early forties, emerge hunched from one of the tents, stand up tall, and begin to stretch in the sun. He stretched for about a minute and then dropped down and did about twenty push-ups. When he finished that task, he sat on a log next to his tent and poured himself a drink from a thermos.

I wondered about what his life was like before he lived here. Were the push-ups part of his routine? How did this fit in with his personality? Was he a driven guy who lost everything and ended up out here with nothing but his tent, his thermos, and the clothes on his back? And would that drive to better himself—that small kernel of drive that still lived inside him—dry up and disappear if he stayed out here long enough? Or would it ultimately save him?

I ended up sitting out there and watching these people from a distance for quite some time. There were about five people standing in a group near Push-up Man. They were pretty ragged and dirty, but they were laughing and having a good time. I couldn't see the devastation that the life of each of them had left in its wake, the broken homes and worried parents, the forgotten children and lost promises. But I could see hope. They had lost everything, and yet they were clearly enjoying a sunny day along the river. When all is lost, there's still something left.

It sounds so simple, perhaps, but as I sat there on a beautiful, early-spring day, watching these people interact, I felt as if a weight had lifted off of my shoulders. It was a hopeful scene, and it brought me some much-needed perspective.

The world around me was moving too fast. I had to train my ass off for the biggest fight of my career against a guy I idolized—an MMA legend and one of the most formidable opponents in MMA history—a guy who once beat B. J. Penn for a UFC title (which was a
huge
deal back then). The buildup to the fight, which marked my first real media push, included a promotional tour for the WEC and a
Countdown
television show. I had to please the sponsors and promoters. But the training and the upcoming fight were not my only concerns. My gym business was just getting off the ground. I was in the process of buying a new house. And on top of all that, I was dealing with some upheaval in my personal life.

Michelle and I had been together since we were in high school, with a few breaks in between. She went to UC Davis with me, and we stayed together through four years of college. She sat down with me and helped me with college applications when I had no idea what I wanted to do or where I wanted to go. She was my best friend. Our families were close. She was the one who hung out in Las Vegas with me and Randy Couture at the start of my career. We were together for nine years, and took it on faith that we might eventually get married and start a family.

And during this time, as I was preparing to fight Pulver and running along the river, it was clear that Michelle was ready to put that plan into action. She was ready for a bigger commitment . . . and I wasn't. It seemed that over the last few years our relationship had been growing more strained. Plans for a family were getting further and further from my focus. Michelle was ready years before this time even. As my career gained momentum and MMA became more popular and profitable, I just couldn't pull the trigger. And as a result, I lost Michelle.

My uncertainty and unwillingness to commit became too much for her to handle. She wanted more control, and I was giving her less. I had to commit one way or another—either
to
her or
away
from
her. And since my selfishness wouldn't allow me to commit to her, I felt the just thing to do for her sake was to call it off.

This scared me. When we broke up, I told her, “I feel like I'm giving up the one person I could spend the rest of my life with.” She couldn't understand my reasoning, and she couldn't stand around waiting for something that might never happen.

This was six weeks before the Pulver fight. On those runs down to the river the questions would repeat themselves in my head over and over:
Am I making the worst mistake of my life? If I want to have a family and I believe she's the one, how can I break it off?
I was conflicted, and confused, and Michelle was angry. When I finally got up the nerve to tell her my decision, it was very emotional. I knew she wasn't going to be able to break up with me herself, and I felt she was trying to force my hand, one way or another.

I was losing my best friend and someone I considered a family member. The person I was going to start a family with was gone.

I cried. She cried.

“If you do this, I don't want to talk to you,” she said. “I don't want to see you. I want you out of my life.”

Those words were like knives. I had no response, other than to say I couldn't keep doing this to her. She was working as a marketing manager at a medical firm and she thought she was going to have to relocate. As the Pulver fight got closer, she felt as if the whole town was talking about me. This was my biggest fight, and it was scheduled to take place in my hometown. I was on the local news practically every night. I was in the newspaper. It was a big deal, and she was suddenly no longer a part of it.

A
s I ran along the riverbank feeling the sun on my back and the rich valley soil under my feet, all of these questions bounced around my brain. The run was much more than training; it was therapy. And so when I watched Push-up Man with his buddies drinking, smoking, joking, and laughing, I realized something: These people had seemingly the worst thing happen to them, they'd lost everything, yet still they found a way to enjoy life and be positive, even if it was only for a few moments on a sunny day. But I saw dignity in their despair, and it made me realize that we're hardwired to be optimistic, and optimism is damned hard to defeat.

I thought to myself:

If lose this fight, so what?

If I lose my house, so what?

If I lose my business, so what?

I'll just come down here and enjoy a beautiful day by the river.

As you work to incorporate passion into your life, it's worth asking yourself a few questions.

What would happen if you lost everything? What if you took a big risk and lost? Where would you be? What's the worst-case scenario?

The answers to these questions are as different as our personalities. Everyone has his own worst-case scenario. For me—single, childless, and freshly wounded by the end of a long relationship—the encampment on the river didn't seem that bad. I could make it work down there.

I made the river run a regular route during the final six weeks of training before the Pulver fight. One day I passed within fifty feet of the encampment and heard hooting from three women sitting near a tent. I then came upon four men sitting near a fenced-in electrical relay station, having a conversation and passing around a bottle of booze. I thought about all the great times I'd had sitting by the river with my buddies, having a few beers and sharing a few laughs. The men were looking at me in a curious, nonthreatening way. I stopped to talk to them.

One of them smiled and asked, “Why you always out here running?”

“I'm training,” I said. “I've got a fight coming up and I'm getting ready.”

“Okay,
that
explains it. You're a fighter—we've been wondering about you.”

The conversation might not have amounted to much, but as I jogged away from those men I was feeling a mixture of gratitude for my outlook and optimism about whatever lay ahead. I had a house, food, and comfort, but I knew that if I lost the fight . . . or my business . . . or
any
material possessions, everything would still be fine.