Phantom Punches

In 1965, Muhammed Ali landed a “phantom punch” on Sonny Liston, which sent him tumbling to the ground, in what quickly became one of the most controversial moments in sports history. The swing was so quick and nearly invisible to referees and fans, that many people claimed to have never even seen a punch, speculating that Liston dove to the ground completely without ever being touched. As I watch the grainy replay six decades later, the moment looks like a total illusion. Liston loses his footing and it appears clumsy, a fluke. He rolls around on the canvas, struggles to get up, and falls repeatedly as Ali prances around the ring in a victorious celebration.

Yet it was real. Through multiple angles from photographs and high-speed video analysis, the experts proved that the punch landed cleanly on Liston’s jaw. So swift it was barely visible to the naked eye, but enough impact to secure a first-round knockout.

I have been trying to find the language for several years now to describe the way my grief resides inside of me. Words used to come more easily. The early years after my dad died were piercing, raw, and almost suffocating, yet I understood my pain. I could transmute it into writing, music, and creative endeavors like a steady stream that never dried. My anger, sadness, and despair poured out of me freely, and I wore my emotions as if they were my skin. I hid nothing, swallowed nothing, and cried enough to swim in an ocean of my making. 

When I finished my second book Becoming Human in 2023, my grief was already changing form. Big life events were transpiring. I left my full time job to pursue my photography business, diving head first into a universe of unknowns. I moved in with my partner. We started another media business together, spending our days cold-calling, editing, and crafting our respective versions of routine while the seasons melted into a year.

I never really stopped writing, but I kept it all for myself, feverishly filling up journals and poring over unfinished songs in my voice memos. Family friends became my first clients, and photography sessions often turned into a catch-up-with-each-other lap around the local park. People would ask me with a casual curiosity: “So…have you been writing?” I’d fumble a long-winded explanation about how yes I am but I am mostly just journaling and I want to write something soon but I am also taking a break and yes but no and sort of.

The truth was that I felt I was losing my grasp on the clear understanding of the grief I had been able to alchemize for many years. Grief is not in any way logical; but until that time, the feelings felt relatively uncomplicated. Devastation, loneliness, and longing are sharp and searing; yet they were so loud I allowed them to exist with total freedom and love. I didn’t try to silence them.

As my life grew around the heaviness, my grief seemed to shrink into a protective shell. Writing about what I knew to be true felt like exposing myself, belly up in a world that was rapidly shape-shifting. Everything I thought I knew so confidently about grief was slipping through my fingers.

Shortly after getting a puppy, my partner and I packed up a U-Haul and drove across the country to move our entire life to Colorado. We were ready for a fresh start. I’ll never forget the moment the mountains materialized over the horizon in a golden haze, like something out of a fever dream. My brother Gabe was driving. Jim Croce was singing. The dogs were cuddling with each other over folded seats in the back. Perhaps that was the first phantom punch of my blossoming new life.

We got to work, building our world together from scratch. We scouted our favorite bike paths, neighborhood walking routes, and coffee shops. Up went the Bob Marley painting, the bookshelves, and the massive collection of polaroids. We volunteered in the local garden. We took Saturday hikes under the flatirons and played music together in the unfinished basement. Jesse made us shakshouka and fancy bagels and birria tacos while I attempted new salad recipes. On my 25th birthday, he surprised me with a spontaneous night away in Breckenridge. I lined my eyes with blue ink and ordered some version of an elderberry cocktail, cozied and smiley in my favorite black turtleneck. It snowed and we fell in love with winter again. I read and read and read and read. We soaked in cotton candy sunsets, and all I could think was that my life had never been more peaceful.

My grief never left me, always a steady hum in the center of my chest. But the West was like a lullaby – holding me, rocking me, and bobbing like a life raft on the unpredictable river of loss. I’d been trying to find an anchor for so many years, and here it was. The sun was reliable. Nature was inevitable. Novelty was finally bringing me back to life.

The phantom punches never stopped, but my body absorbed them, almost out of habit. New people who did not know me. The word parents. November skies that stole my breath. The blows were invisible, even to me. I was so overcome with the shock of awe and wonder, that I hardly realized my grief was aching inside of its own softening. 

My dad was and is everywhere, here. He held a lifelong dream of one day moving to Colorado, his favorite place in the world. Perhaps his passion for the mountains rubbed off on me, or maybe I was just born with that same genetic itch for the West. Every day I wake up in this place yields a monstrous phantom punch to my gut. But it’s quieter now. Or maybe I’m quieter. It’s difficult to scream in agony when your pain feels more like a silent companion. I was so fearful that The Ache abandoned me when I found the life I had been looking for, but she’s always been here. She is finally emerging from a deep hibernation, regaining the courage to speak up again. And I am learning how to listen.