🥋 Sundays Without Cain – Episode 1 - A ROLL & RUMBLE Fight Co. Exclusive

August 10, 2025

🎤 Interview by “D-Man,” CTF Inmate Correspondent

Week One: Writing About Cain... Without Cain

The last thing I was ready for was writing about Cain without Cain.

These past few months, I’ve been writing Cain’s story straight from the horse’s mouth. I’ve felt like a conduit—just relaying what he plans, feels, thinks, remembers, hopes, fears, regrets, believes, sees, hears, learns, teaches, forgets, loses, finds, changes, suffers, manages, tries, reads, says, eats, smells, makes... and shares.

Yeah—I almost forgot share. That might be the most important one.

Cain shares.

He shares his story. He shares his time with anyone who wants it—whether for a minute, an hour, a day, or every Sunday. But more than that, he shares something harder to define: a stillness. A calmness and a kindness beyond what most would recognize as calm or kind.

Somewhere in the darkness, he found a stillness—and in that stillness, he saw you, me, us.

He speaks of that darkness, how he used it as fuel—fed on it, fought through it—and how it transformed him. He came out the other side seeing people not as what they were, or even what they are, but what they could be. He sees you, me, us—as himself.

We are all connected.

The Wednesday before he left, we talked about that very thing. How we’re all made of the same material. How we are all one in creation. We are all light—beings living for a short time to learn a long lesson.

We talked about reincarnation. Purpose. Meaning.

Cain has a powerful way of being present. He reminds people to:
Do good now. Love others now. Reflect now. Breathe now.

He says things like, “Let the past stay in the past.” He tells people to go easy on themselves, to look inward for joy. And he lives it—through his smile, his laugh, his patience.

Patience with those society has labeled “worthless.”
Patience with himself.
Patience in the face of stress.
Patience when talking to the old, the slow, the timid.
Patience in living—which, if you’ve ever tried it consciously, is damn hard.

We’re conditioned to speed through life. To chase results. But Cain slows people down, and in doing so, he wakes them up. He helps people just be.

"Be what?" they ask.

Be here. Be alive. Be aware that you can do more... but not now.

Now, we’re just sitting here—being.

I needed this week to reflect—on Cain, on our conversations, on his impact. And in doing so, I feel like I’ve found the root of a plant that’s been growing here at CTF. It grows in me. It grows in you—the reader who sees past the fight. It grows in everyone who has spent real time with Cain.

He’s fought so many battles so we don’t have to.
And now? He’s sharing the spoils with anyone who’s willing to listen.

Everyone wants to hear Cain.
But few actually hear him.
Too many are still stuck in what was, instead of seeing what is.

I can’t wait to see him again—to tell him how much our time together has helped me understand myself. But for now, I’ll leave the gushing here, on the page.

One of the most powerful things holotropic breathing has taught me is this:
“I am more than I ever thought I was.”

I can do more.
See more.
Breathe deeper.
Relax harder.
Be more.

All I have to do... is slow down and let go.

Cain says in class:
“Just surrender, and let what comes... come.”

Sometimes, what comes is nothing. And that’s something too.

Let go of doubt.
Let go of shame.
Let go of fear, worry, expectation.
Let go of desire.

Just breathe.

This has brought me calm. Patience. Understanding.

Voices Beyond My Own

Today, I spent Sunday in reflection—and also interviewed two men Cain has deeply impacted.

Kirk (Age 36, Incarcerated Over 20 Years)

Before Cain arrived, Kirk was already practicing pranayama—alternate nostril breathing—and meditating regularly. Yard, dayroom, school, work, or in his cell—he stays stretching, reading self-help books like his life depends on it.

He was stoked to meet someone like Cain.

One of the first—and still one of the most frequent—attendees of the breathing class.

How often do you go?
“Three to four times a week.”

What’s been the impact?
“It’s brought up stuff I have to deal with. Depression. Unhappiness. Pride. Even birth trauma.”

Birth trauma?
“Yeah—it’s connected to breathing. Being born is traumatic. That first breath is relief. That moment releases DMT—the same kind that comes during the breathing class. Healing starts there.”

Where does it lead?
“To awareness—of posture, of breathing patterns, of how I move through the day. It helps me focus. And when I surrender in Cain’s class, I become aware of others’ suffering. I feel like we’re all in this together. Prison. Life.”

He shared that the sessions flood him with memories of his loved ones, that he's had powerful visual effects—glimpses of a path few have walked.

What else has changed?
“I feel like my body can hold more energy. Like I’m a copper wire. I’ve built a foundation to handle life’s problems. A place to go when I need clarity.”

And Cain himself?
“He’s a teacher. I respect the work he’s put into his craft. We connect on so many things. And he’s kind—easy to talk to about stuff most people wouldn’t understand.”

Kirk had to run off—but I know his story’s far from over.

Elio (Age 51, Incarcerated 25 Years Straight)

Elio’s been locked up most of his life—his first stint at age ten, in Youth Authority L.A. Now, he’s a certified OMCP drug and alcohol counselor, a respected leader, and a Denial Management mentor.

We met on the grassy patch in front of the yard's soccer goal—the same spot I used to interview Cain.

Did you ever watch Cain fight?
“I remember the Brock Lesnar fight—that was big for me. I also saw the Dos Santos loss. I thought, ‘He’s human.’ My daughters Jennifer and Jacqueline, and my niece, saw one of his fights live in Vegas. Jacqueline passed from cervical cancer... but I still remember how excited they were.”

How did you realize Cain was here at CTF?
“I recognized him when he first stepped on the yard.”

You two have chemistry. You’re always trying to take him down. Did you wrestle as a kid?
(Laughs) “I was born in Brooklyn, raised in Puerto Rico until I was six. Sold drugs at ten to buy a bus ticket to California to find my mom. From 11 to 13, I boxed. My brother trained in martial arts.”

So how’d you go from that to grappling with a former UFC Heavyweight Champ?
“I introduced myself and we started talking—boxing, yard conduct. I noticed he was close to getting into something bad early on. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong guy. I pulled him aside and told him: ‘You could extend your time here if you’re not careful.’ He thanked me. We’ve been friends ever since. And yeah—I’ve tried to submit him every chance I get. No luck yet.”

You walk with Cain a lot, right?
“Every evening. We talk about family. The future.”

And the breathing classes?
“I’ve done it six times. The first one was just me and him out here. He had his MP3 player and a speaker playing Ayahuasca music. I noticed the music kept pausing right when he’d say something profound. I thought, ‘Damn, this guy’s in tune.’ Then he held up a remote and said, ‘I was pressing pause.’ We both laughed our asses off. After crying like a baby, it was the perfect ending.”

Elio had more to say, but had to run. “I want to tell you more,” he said. And I believe him.

Closing Thoughts

So that’s my first Sunday without Cain. And yet, somehow, still with him.

Elio, Kirk, and I all look forward to his return—but we know his time here is short.

Cain’s story has inspired me. And it’s made me think about my story—the one I’ve never written. The one my daughters don’t know. They only know my worst mistake.

Maybe you have loved ones who don’t know your story either.

The parts they do know might be incomplete—missing your thoughts, feelings, beliefs, regrets, or dreams.

So I’ll leave you with this challenge: Interview someone you love. Or let them interview you. Share your story. Pass it down. Don’t let silence or shame steal your voice.

Cain taught me that we’re all holding space here on Earth—for a short while.

Let’s use it wisely.

We all have a story to tell.