Monday night open mic.
Never done a Monday before.
The day started in chaos.
Half the internet went offline at midnight. Data center down.
I was up all night fixing it after already being up for other bullshit.
AWS collapsed globally. Millions of services offline.
But my anxiety about it hit different this time.
Less than 1% global data-center availability meant my outage was invisible in the mess.
I still cared about my clients, but when the whole world breaks at once, it resets your perspective.
I went to the gym.
Down to 240. Feeling good, light, strong.
When Coach Kelly saw me, he said I looked great.
I told him I was feeling monstrous,
but I didn’t realize how many kinds of monsters lived inside me.
When the Lines Blur
That monster energy when it’s pure boxing feels holy.
It’s respect. Discipline. Two people pushing each other to find the edge and then reach past it.
That’s the energy I teach my kids. Controlled, honest, building greatness through boundaries.
But there’s another kind. The one I carried back from Georgia.
The one that isn’t about sport or art it’s about survival.
When I was locked up, I learned what it meant to fight with no off-switch.
You don’t square up to compete; you square up to live.
That energy is heavy. It’s fast. It doesn’t care who you are.
You don’t perform it you become it.
And that’s the blur.
Boxing taught me how to turn it off.
Georgia reminded me how easily I can turn it back on.
Ever since, performance energy feels dangerous.
The adrenaline that used to mean “go perform” sometimes whispers “get ready to survive.”
It’s the same physiological storm, but one can build you and the other can destroy you.
Tonight, I felt them mixing again.
The Trigger
At Heavy Anchor, I was 20th on the list.
A comic came up, friendly guy, wanted to talk boxing.
He boxed back in the day. Good dude.
But as we talked, I felt that energy creeping in.
That blur.
Nothing he said was wrong, but my body started bracing.
Fight energy, not performance energy.
And I can’t bring that on stage.
So I stopped him mid-sentence.
“Hey man, I’m sorry, can we not talk about boxing right now?”
Then I walked away.
Because I could feel myself changing.
Protecting the Energy
There’s no smooth way to tell someone,
“This topic stirs something I can’t carry right now.”
People expect you to stay in the conversation.
But I’m learning I don’t owe that.
I can walk away.
I can protect my energy,
not out of fear, but precision.
I went back later, shook his hand, and explained. He understood.
But in the moment, I had to step outside and breathe.
Didn’t have a panic attack, but I felt one forming.
My body wanted to armor up.
So I walked away.
That was the fight worth winning.
There was a time that moment would’ve sent me to a bottle.
Not tonight.
Tonight, I kept the shield up and the sword sheathed.
The Stage
My opening line:
“Man, is it hard out here for a middle-aged white guy.”
From backstage: “Not middle-aged.”
From the crowd: “Fuck you.”
I kept going.
“No really, saw one mowing the lawn the other day.
Not even on the rider. Pushing the mower. Times are rough.”
Laughter.
Small victories.
Then the new bit about dating across races.
Still rough, but it’s finding its shape.
I finished with the haiku, my safety net.
Pulled my phone from my pocket, read it clean.
One wrong word, and the punchline dissolves.
Precision matters.
The Drive Home
On the drive home, I knew I did good work.
I recognized the storm before it hit.
Walked away. Regained control.
But I need to catch it sooner next time.
That line between performance and survival is still razor-thin.
People mean well when they talk about my bits,
but I have to learn how to step away before the wrong monster wakes up.
I cried on the way home.
First time in weeks.
Maybe because I’m finally sleeping again.
Maybe because I finally felt safe enough to let go.
Something clicked tonight. Another growth spike after a plateau.
The Realization
Trying new material matters.
Failing matters.
But the deeper truth,
I have to forgive myself for what I did to survive.
Boxing kept me alive.
Quitting drinking kept me alive.
Hell, drinking kept me alive once too,
numbing me just enough not to end it all.
I have to forgive all of it.
Because even though I’ve hurt people,
most lives I’ve touched are better for knowing me.
Doesn’t mean there wasn’t damage.
But the intent was never harm.
It was survival.
If you were hurt in that wake, I’m sorry.
And I’ve forgiven everyone who ever hurt me.
That’s the only way the armor gets lighter.
Understanding vs. Knowing
You can hear a saying your whole life,
then one moment drops you into understanding.
That’s what Georgia was for me.
That’s what tonight was.
The same storm, different lessons.
The Lesson
Growth comes from doing hard things.
Walking away was hard.
Getting on stage after feeling triggered was hard.
Crying in the car was hard.
But it was worth it.
Because when you do what you love with full effort
and no attachment to outcome, great things happen.
You can’t control the crowd.
You can’t control your triggers.
You can’t control who gets hurt while you’re just trying to stay alive.
But you can control showing up.
Protecting the energy.
Knowing which monster to feed.
Walking away when you need to.
Getting back on stage anyway.
That’s the CoxOut journey,
raw truth, self-control, and transformation through pain.
Even when it hurts.
Especially when it hurts.
Tonight hurt.
And tonight I grew.
Those two things aren’t separate.
They’re the same thing.
When was the last time you walked away to protect your energy?
And did it feel like weakness or strength?
