​The silence of my private training facility is rarely broken, but today, the sound of my heavy bag taking a beating is rhythmic, almost melodic. Thud. Crack. Thud. The sound of leather hitting heavy sand echoes against the cold concrete walls. I wipe the sweat from my brow, my breathing steady despite the intensity of the past hour. My knuckles ache inside my wraps, a dull reminder of the price of excellence. I look at my reflection in the wall-to-ceiling mirrors. I don't see a woman reeling from a loss. I see a woman who just finished a masterclass in what doesn't work.

​Miss USA. The name still tastes like copper in my mouth. That "hard-fought" battle wasn't a loss; it was a tuition payment. I learned her pace, her leverage, and most importantly, I learned that I am capable of going into the deep water and coming back to the surface. Now, there’s Sunday Night SLAM. And there’s Big Mama Johnson.

​"She thinks she's a freight train," I murmur to the empty room, untying my wraps. "But even a freight train has to follow the tracks." I walk over to the bench where my water bottle and a towel sit. I look at my phone—a barrage of social media noise about my "heartbreak," my "slump," my "need to recover." It’s noise. Everyone loves a comeback story, but they hate the part where you have to actually put in the work to get there. They want the glitz, not the grind.

​Big Mama thinks she’s a buffet. A "seven-course meal." She talks a big game, relies on that brute strength, that heavy-handed, South Side swagger. She’s a wall, and she expects me to run straight into it so she can bounce me off the canvas. Well, I’m not a runner. I’m a technician. I’m a jeweler. I know exactly where the flaw in the stone is.

​I pick up my water, my eyes fixed on the spot on the wall where I’ve taped a picture of the SWF Women’s Championship belt. It’s a distant goal, but the path to it runs directly through the biggest obstacle in the division. She’s a giant, sure. But giants have a center of gravity, and they all have to come down eventually. I’ve been drilling the "Diamond Cutter’s Regret" for six hours straight. It’s not just a move; it’s an inevitability. It’s designed for women like her—women who move with mass but lack the fluid motion to counter the sudden shift of momentum. When she comes at me with that heavy-handed power, I don't need to meet her force with my own. I just need to change the angle.

​I sit down on the floor, stretching out my hamstrings, my mind drifting to the Sunday crowd. They’ll be cheering for her. They’ll want to see the spectacle. They’ll want to see the train wreck. They’re going to be disappointed when they realize that diamonds are harder than any train.

​"She’s holding a broom, huh?" I whisper, a cold, sharp smile playing on my lips. "She better hope she’s ready to clean up the pieces of her own reputation. That title belt is the only thing that matters, and I’ve realized that losing to Miss USA was just the universe clearing the path. I had to learn how to lose before I could truly learn how to win on the grandest stage."

​I stand up, my body feeling coiled, ready. I’m not mourning the Miss USA fight anymore. I’m not looking back. I’m looking at Sunday. Every bead of sweat, every torn bandage, every early morning in this empty gym—it’s all for the moment the referee raises my hand. Big Mama Johnson is a mountain, but mountains are just obstacles to be climbed. And I’ve got the best gear in the industry.

​"Sunday," I say, stepping into the stream of cold water to wash away the last of the doubt. "Let's see if that freight train can handle a little bit of pressure. She’s gonna find out that when you apply enough force to a diamond, it doesn't break—it only cuts deeper."

​I reach for my gear bag, pulling out my signature ring attire. It’s sleek, metallic, and designed for speed. Big Mama might be the storm, but I’m the eye—calm, precise, and entirely in control of the destruction that follows. Sunday isn't just another match; it’s the reclamation of my destiny. And come Sunday night, when the lights dim and the music hits, Big Mama Johnson is going to realize that she’s stepped into the ring with a girl who has nothing left to lose and everything to gain.

"See you Sunday... Big Mama."