Growing up, my mom never supported my desire to train in striking-based martial arts. She feared the injuries lurking in those gyms; I can't blame her. So, I found solace in Judo (ironically, I broke my medial epicondyle, a bone that stabilizes the elbow, while training Judo and had to have surgery). But the itch to learn to brawl like Jean-Claude Van Damme persisted, and years later, I discovered he trained in karate and ballet, not Muay Thai.

Eventually, I was able to afford a Muay Thai gym for myself. The smell of liniment and stale sweat hit me like a punch to the gut, but it felt like home. I looked forward to training each day. I began photographing my teammates and their fights, which expanded to traveling to various fights in the Pacific Northwest to document them.

While kneeling in the ring corner, photographing the fights, I had the privilege to see human resilience, dedication, joy, and disappointment unfold in the squared circle. Each fighter had their reasons to chase glory amidst the chaos. I don't know if they got what they truly wanted, but I admire their courage and sacrifice to prepare for the ring.

It is a brutal, raw, and undeniably beautiful art form.