Interview by “D-Man,” CTF Inmate Correspondent
In life, our stories are never written alone—they’re stitched together with the lives of those we love. And sometimes, documenting one person’s story means telling the story of those who shaped them most. With Cain, it’s no different. You can’t capture his entire life in a single conversation, but today, we turned to one person who meant the world to him: his mother, Isabel.
The gym was closed and our breathing class canceled, so Cain and I had time—time to sit without rushing, time to dig deep. I told him I wanted to focus on one person at a time in these family histories. When I asked earlier in the week who he wanted to start with, he didn’t hesitate. His answer was simple: “My mom.”
She passed away in 2019, after years of poor health. Cain was with her that final day but left for one of Daniel Cormier’s fights. A few hours after he walked out, she passed. He shook his head, the weight of hindsight pressing on him. “I didn’t realize back then the power of someone’s transfer,” he said softly. “I know now. That moment of their last breath—it’s powerful. She was already halfway past the veil that whole last week. Couldn’t speak. Just looked around like a newborn.”
Her name was Isabel, born in 1946. She had three children, and Cain was the last—her baby at age 36. His earliest memory of her is one he’s shared before, fixing the family’s broken VCR with nothing but a butter knife and fork. But as he leaned back, more came flooding in. “I remember waking up in the mornings asking for Quik Mix,” he said with a smile. “She’d be in the kitchen with Cumbra music blaring, making tortillas by hand, dancing while she worked. They were flour tortillas—thin, perfect. Northern Mexico style. To this day, I judge every tortilla against hers, and most don’t even come close. The Mission brand? Inedible. Until I got here. In prison, you eat what you get.”
Her own childhood was hard. Isabel had opened up to Cain about the abuse she endured, both physical and emotional. Her father insisted her place was in the home, cooking and cleaning from a young age. She only made it through the seventh grade before heading to the fields to work. Later, though, she proved her strength. She earned a social degree through correspondence from Arizona State—long before the internet existed. She also became a licensed midwife, teaching Lamaze classes, with a young Cain sometimes tagging along. “She was always telling me about babies, birthing, everything,” he said, shaking his head with a quiet chuckle.
Food memories poured out, too. On trips to Mexico, Isabel’s eyes would light up over potato flautas. Cain described dirt and sand streets with random food stands—ice coolers filled with fresh seafood and simple, incredible flavors. “My mom loved those with mayo, potatoes, cabbage. They were amazing.” Sometimes they visited San Luis Río Colorado, where his father grew up. Other times, Altar, where her family was from.
Her music was always part of their lives. Cain laughed as he remembered one song blaring in particular: “No te metas con mi CuCu.” And she had her sayings, too. Her favorite was simple and powerful: “To me, my treasure is my kids.”
Cain leaned back, laughing even harder when I asked if she bragged about him. “She would invite people over just to show them my wrestling awards. Not even friends—just random neighbors.” She was proud, maybe too proud, but Cain loved it. When he left for college, the bond never weakened. “I always felt comfortable talking to her. I let her in on everything going on in my life.”
One memory hit him harder than most. “I was on the phone with her once, telling her I had to leave the next morning for work. A media trip to Mexico, I think. We said goodbye, and I went to bed. Hours later, at four in the morning, I heard my name being called outside. My mom was walking down the street yelling, ‘Cain! Cain!’ She and my dad had driven nine hours just so she could see me for a couple of hours. I opened the door like, ‘Mom, what are you doing?’ And she just yelled, ‘I don’t know, I’m crazy. I love my son!’”
Cain shook his head with watery eyes, laughing at the same time. “My dad stayed in the car for 20 minutes before he came in, just shrugging his shoulders. She made him drive her.”
She loved her grandchildren as fiercely as her kids. Cain still has a video of her meeting Cain Jr. at six months old. “He immediately started grabbing her face, playing with her. It’s a great video.” Another memory had Cain grinning: block parties. “She’d pay me a dollar to dance with her. I was old enough not to want to, maybe 7 to 10, but back then, a dollar could buy a dance.”
I asked him to describe her as a person, and the tears came. “She was loving. Endless love. Understanding. Caring. She made me feel true love without judgment. She loved me as I was.” Did he see her in himself? “She taught me to be open. To open up to my kids. Looking back, I see how her love kept growing. And now, I see that in me too—how my love grows for my kids. For everyone.”
Later, Cain admitted he still talks to his mom sometimes. He feels her presence, knows she’s still with him—just in a different way.
When we closed the chapter on Isabel, we shifted to Cain’s career, to UFC 110 in Sydney, Australia. His opponent that night was Antonio Rodrigo Nogueira—Big Nog—a legend with a record of 32–5. Cain had been his own worst critic leading up to that fight, frustrated with his performances. But this camp was different.
“I focused on my stand-up,” Cain said. “I saw my flaws—too much quantity, not enough quality. I worked on repetition. Every punch, feet planted, driving through the target. Over and over again with Javier. An hour and a half at the mitts, then off to the bags to keep going. Three days a week.”
Cain respected Nogueira deeply. “I admired him. I liked him. Honestly, I didn’t want to fight him. But I had a job to do.” And he did. He steamrolled Big Nog, finishing him at 2:20 of the first round with some of the sharpest striking of his career. “That quieted the pillow hands talk,” he admitted.
That night also changed his life outside the cage. Michelle was there with him in Australia, though their baby stayed behind with his mom.
Did you know before the fight that if you won, you would get a title fight? " Ya, the winner of this fight was next in line. I knew that ahead of time". Ryan Bader fought that night? "So did CB Dollaway. We were all three AZ State alumni".
Did you guys go out after the fights to celebrate? " We did. We all three won our fights. We went to a little bar. It was me, Michelle, Ryan, CB, and Nogueira was even there". Really, you guys hung out after the fight? "We exchanged a few words and bought each other drinks". That's really cool of both of you guys.
After the fight, Cain dropped to one knee on Bondi Beach at sunset and proposed. He had bought the ring in L.A.’s Diamond District and set himself a rule: he had to win the fight before asking. Laughing until tears rolled, Cain admitted he forgot to ask Michelle’s dad for permission, but her father covered for him, telling her Cain had called from Australia even though he hadn’t.
It was a win in every way. Cain knew the victory secured him a title shot—against either Brock Lesnar or Shane Carwin. Back in Mexico afterward, the media treated him like royalty, shutting down streets, escorting him with police cars and armored vehicles. The pressure was mounting, but so was the dream.
Fan Question of the Week:
Reminder: Submit your fan question on Instagram or Facebook, and it just might get published along with Cain’s response! This week, MatMonster5150 wants to know... “Cain, in your last episode, you shared the memory of wiping out on your skateboard as a kid and needing stitches. Looking back now, do you feel those early scars—both physical and emotional—helped prepare you for the toughness you needed later in life as a fighter and as a man?”
Cain Responds: I do believe that what we are given, we can take and overcome. In regards to my physical scars, I put myself in those situations. With my personality being hyperactive. Having countless trips to the hospital at a young age, I developed a good base for physical pain and resilience. I learned how to stay calm and keep my composure when I felt pain. With emotional pain, that is a different story. Those scars cut way deeper. Thus, it takes a lot longer to heal. The emotional scars heal differently. Untreated, they stay fresh, just like the day you received them. Invisible up to the day you recognize them for what they are. Once you see where and when they come from, you can begin to forgive. Forgive those who scarred you. But most importantly, forgive yourself for holding onto this scar so tight. Doing this, the scar can begin to truly heal.
As our Sunday came to an end, I felt honored to have captured not only Cain’s career memories but the love he carries for his mother, Isabel. If I could speak to her myself, I’d tell her: Your son loves you more than words can ever describe.
We’ll see you next week for Sundays with Cain.
