It was 8:45am on a Saturday and I was already 2 drinks deepto start a bachelorette weekend in Las Vegas. My phone lit up with an alert indicating a missed call from my trainer,Marty Farrell. I called him back immediately,with his Boston accent on the other end, “What are you doing?” My response, “I’m on my way to a pool party.” He laughed, and replied, “Julie fromHaymakers called and asked if you would fight in place of Emily Jones. You’d be a late add, so you would only have 6weeks to train though.” I’m not sure ifit was the alcohol speaking, or the excitement of fighting in Haymakers forHope again, but without hesitation I answered, “Yes. It would be an honor.”

This upcoming fight would be my second go around because thebadass fighter, Emily Jones, got injured during a rugby match. Emily was a boxer and rugby player, and ascientist at the New England Aquarium who studies sharks. Her life is basically Shark Week every day,but it’s no surprise because she is one person I would consider to be a sharkas well. With less than 2 months totrain, I’ll be doing my best to maintain Emily’s badass legacy alive, andfighting in an event that means so much to me.

Nearly a year ago, I received an email from Haymakers forHope stating that I had been selected to compete in Belles of the Brawl 2016. I would be boxing for a charity that tries to“knock out cancer… by literally fighting for a cure.,” meaning, I would fightin the memory of my mom, who lost her battle to cancer in just 3 months. Fast forward to my call with Marty whilepartying in Vegas, I decided I would fight for her again on May 18th,just a few days after Mother’s Day, because she didn’t get another chance tofight.

Training for Belles 2016 was a 4-month ordeal, that made mecloser with my dear friend, Dave Mejia-Giraldo, who renewed his USA Boxingcertification just so he could train me, and lead me to victory while wearingthe bandana my mom had during her chemo treatment. Training was excruciating at times, but everysecond of misery I experienced during training was worth it to hear Dave tellme, “You did it,” after the last bell ring and be named the winner.

The weight flew off during my Belles training (especiallybecause I had the entire 4 months) and I didn’t need to watch what I consumeduntil the last 8 weeks of training. Andall that really meant was I needed to cut out sweets and limit my alcoholicbeverages to 3 if I was out (I made an exception at a friend’s wedding andabout 15). However, this is not the casefor what I like to call, “Haymakers 2.0.” With the help of Marty and my nutritionist, Lisa Healey, I have to fit 4months of training into 6 weeks, lose 17 pounds to make weight, and somehow notrip out my hair before I step into the ring at the House of Blues.

Lisa did a complete overhaul of my diet and Marty turned up mycurrent training to a new level that I didn’t even fathom. I consume minimalcalories and the number of carbs I’m allowed to eat in a day are so low I don’teven like saying the number out loud. Comingback from Vegas is always difficult, but even harder when my calories are cutin half, double-days are standard with my morning session starting at 5am, and500 reps of a core exercise is a daily expectation. Hello summer bod!

Last time, I only trained with Dave, which I loved, buttraining with other women who have taken me in as a member of their gym familyeases the pain of the 4am alarm. Theyare training for their own fights, but made me the priority of the groupbecause I’m the only fighting in Haymakers. They have stayed behind to run with me because I suck at runningdistance (yes, 2 miles is distance to me), woken up early just to give me extrasparring, and laughed along with me as we all ask ourselves why we keep comingback at 5am just to get hit in the face.

Earlier this year, I was out on a first date with a sweetguy, who innocently asedk, “So you’re a boxer, huh? I’ve actually never been hit in theface. What does it feel like?” I laughed and gave a vague answer that Ibarely recall. I usually do that whenasked and I’m first meeting people because chances of them wanting my realanswer are very slim. But he never askedagain, and cringed when I told him about my bloody nose or the time I heard myneck snap after getting hit by my friend.

But my real answer to him and anyone else who has neverexperienced being hit in the face is this: to me, it feels like Mother’s Daywithout my mom. It’s jarring and hurtslike a mother-fucker at first, but it is raw and pure all at once. After surviving my first Mother’s Day withoutmy mom and eventually my first hit to the face, I accepted that I will always beextra vulnerable on that day or right after taking a hit, but sometimes beinggutted open is what I need to know I’m still fighting, that I’m stillbreathing, just without my mom.

There are days that it is physically painful to get out ofbed, afternoons that I’m positive I’ve slept walked through, or nights I go tobed starving because I want more than broccoli and chicken for dinner. But I continuously tell myself that mysuffering does not come close to the pain my mom endured during chemo or literallyfighting for air while on life-support the last 12 days she was here. She fought until the very last round, evenwhen time was against her, so I owe it to her to fight even though I had lessthan 2 months to prepare and while nursing a Vegas hang over.

Fight night is coming quickly and so is another Mother’s Daywithout my mom, but I find comfort knowing that Marty will be in my corner andmy friends and family will be cheering from the crowd again. Whether it’sknowing where to go for weigh-ins to anticipating the all the emotions runningthrough my body, I have the luxury of knowing exactly what to expect the nightof May 18th because I’ve been under those lights before.

The only thing different this time will be that instead ofbeing an all-female fight card, I will be one half of the only female bout thatnight. That part doesn’t faze me thoughbecause I like being a strong woman among men. After all, I’ve survived a fewMother’s Days without my mom and several hits to the face in front of 1,900people, and come out victorious from both.

These elements are part of my story now, but to the guy whoasked, getting hit in the face hurts like a mother-fucker, but not nearly asbad as Mother’s Day without my mom. Whilethat pain may never go away, the sting I feel after a clean hit is justtemporary. It’s raw. It’s pure. And way more fun when you’re trying to knockout cancer in front of a sold out crowd.