My Story
I grew up in places where it wasn’t out of the ordinary to see cracked pavements and broken windows.
The homes and apartments were older and run down. Green, grassy lawns didn’t really exist. It didn’t matter what neighborhood we lived in - each had its own version of danger. There were gunshots and gang fights, kids drinking at fourteen, and of course, drugs and domestic violence. There was also a strange, unspoken understanding that the adults weren’t going to help.
My mom's boyfriend, who I was told to call my stepfather, disciplined us with belts on bare skin.
When my mom wasn't around, which was often, he did other things, too. One afternoon, I finally confessed to my little sister that I didn’t feel safe in my bed at night. She told me I could sleep with her, and then she encouraged me to speak up and tell someone. So I did.
First, I told my mom. She told me I was lying. That I was making things up. Then, I told my uncle. And he said I could come live at his house.
There, I slept in my room most days, barely ate, and avoided too much social interaction — it was quieter and felt safer. There were no midnight visitors. No cracked doors. No fear of being touched. For a long time, I thought that was the best I could hope for. Just safety.
Then, I found wrestling.
And it was like my body remembered something both ancient and true; that I was not meant for mere survival. I was meant to fight.
Fighting became a way to reclaim what had been taken from me. My voice. My confidence. My power. I trained every day. I got stronger and sharper and faster. I skipped parties and discovered purpose in discipline. I skipped school and still managed to graduate early. I found healing in sweat. Conviction in every challenge. Dignity in every drop of blood I left on the mat. And I realized a kind of strength. The kind that looks like walking into a ring and knowing no one can hurt you anymore.
When I was a child, my grandfather called me "El Torito" because I ran around with an attitude like a “baby bull.”
So when I started fighting professionally, I claimed “The Bull” as my moniker and became known for my strength in the ring. I won the title of Invicta FC Strawweight Champion and then vacated that title to sign with UFC.
But while I was proud of every accomplishment at the gym or in the ring, the real fight, the hardest one, was happening in my heart.
At 20, I fell in love with a boy named Luke.
The men in my family were not at all supportive of my relationship with him and I even lost my home with my uncle because I wasn’t willing to follow his rules. But I fought to stay with Luke and somewhere between living in my car and flopping at my sister’s apartment, I learned that I didn’t have to earn safety — I deserved it.
Luke and I got married and we now have three children. A boy and two girls. We share sleepless nights and early mornings. Bottles, belly laughs, and sticky hands. And somewhere along the way I learned that this is the life I was always meant to live. Not the one I was handed. The one I chose.
And that changed everything.
I used to see myself as someone who was broken. I hid behind a tough exterior and wanted others to hurt as I hurt. I believed that freedom lived in my fists. That strength was something you proved through gritted teeth and broken knuckles.
But now I know — strength is quiet. It’s knowing you won’t repeat what broke you. It’s loving your children in the exact way you were never loved. It’s creating a home where no one is afraid to cry.
I am no longer waiting for an apology, or an explanation, or something to help me make sense of what happened to me, because I know that the best kind of peace comes when I stop trying to control others or make them understand how badly they hurt me.
More than anything, I realize my heart is worth the fight. That’s why I train women now. Not just to help them get physically stronger, but to provide a place where they can come home to themselves.
My private gym is where the old stories end. We move. We box. We sweat. We talk. I will push you, gently but firmly, because I know what’s waiting on the other side. Not just toned muscles, but reclamation. Confidence. Presence. The ability to look at yourself in the mirror and say, “I know who I am. I know what I’ve survived. And I’m not afraid anymore.”