Becky Lynch The Man Quotes

If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will complete you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will destroy you

I want to be viewed for the work I do. I want gender out of the picture. And not because I don't like being a woman, but because it shouldn't matter if I am one.

It was Fergal Devitt, and his profile picture had not done him justice. He was stunning, engaging, confident, and one of those types you couldn’t help but be drawn to; there was a knowing that he would go on and do big things one day—which he has, as Finn Balor in WWE

That it’s always about the journey and not the destination. That change is always possible, and things are only impossible until someone does them. That nothing outside of ourselves can bring lasting happiness. More than anything, I have learned that my biggest enemy has always been self-doubt and that when I have been able to free myself from its irritating shackles and had the courage to trust my inner compass, wonderful things can happen.

Then and there, I vowed to lose weight so I might have a chance of actually being like my mom when I grew up. But then I got hungry and sad and just wanted pizza. Beauty was my mom's domain. Pizza was mine

With the world shut down for covid and nothing to do, the least I could do was create human life.

The first words I remember my mom telling me were “Be normal.” Even at five, I knew I was going to break her heart.

The people at the shoot were lovely, of course, and this shoot was much more professional and classier than the last one. However, the magazines they ended up in? Not so much. I was horrified, but also too meek to stand up and say anything to the agency. “Very popular magazine,” they said. Yeah… I can see why.… It was the top porno magazine in Japan, and, as a result of my very Catholic upbringing and my intentions on how I wanted to be portrayed in general, I was mortified. Meanwhile in wrestling… the agency had booked me on a show called The Woman, which included some of my idols. But I was facing a lady dressed like a bull.

All I would do was fantasize about food I could eat when I was done. Like carrots, which were banned for their high sugar content. Fucking carrots!

Now slightly thicker than I had been recently, I rocked up to a venue in Germany and was greeted by one of the UK’s most respected wrestlers, Doug Williams. “No more abs?” he asked as if I weren’t a teenage girl with a complex. More tone-deaf than malicious. “No, Doug. I have a fucking eating disorder and was killing myself” was what I wanted to say. But instead, I just laughed and said, “Ha-ha, apparently not,” and then cried in the bathroom.

I had the X factor. Someone on MySpace told me so.

I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t want the pressure. I didn’t want the potential failure. I didn’t want to be in pain. I didn’t want to be so uncertain about what was happening next. What I did know was I didn’t have the balls to tell anyone I was suffering. Like a coward, I used the injury as a way to step away while I tried to figure out my head, without having to admit that I simply couldn’t hack it.

I love wrestling. But there’s no future in it. It’s just not a realistic dream. I want to find something that I love as much, but that’s a safer choice, you know what I mean?” “Well, you can’t do that anymore. But have you considered business studies?” she responded, deadpan. Spending four years doing something so utterly boring felt like a prison sentence. I left, barely able to see through my tears as I bawled my eyes out in my red Volkswagen Polo. I drove across a suspended bridge and imagined myself veering to the left and plummeting into the water far below. Just one flick of the steering wheel and it’ll be over. Hold on, ya bastard. It’ll get better. I was now white-knuckling the steering wheel. Any move I make from here is better than this. Fuck this, I thought. You don’t want to do business. You don’t want to do sports management. You want to perform. Do that. Find a way. Find a fucking way, Rebecca. I crossed the bridge.

The first year of the course was all about stripping back the layers and masks we wear in public or for other people. Some exercises were more peculiar than others; like watching chocolate melt and then becoming chocolate, which resulted in the class writhing on the floor and groaning like they were in some sort of weird chocolate orgy. Instructions like “drop into your anus” didn’t help make this feel any less weird.

One such customer who often came in for the chats went by the name of Ryan Callahan. “Hey, what did you do before you did this?” he asked inquisitively. “A lot of things, flight attendant, pro wrestler, perso—” “Wait, you’re not Rebecca Knox, are you?” he interrupted. Taken aback, I thought no one knew who I was, nor would anyone remember me. “Eh, yeah, that’s me.” “Everyone wondered what happened to you!” I don’t think he was actually speaking about “everyone.” Ryan was a dedicated wrestling fan, knowing the ins and outs of the whole business, including the indies. He would go on to become the lead writer of Raw and SmackDown less than a decade later.

I held her hand, knowing that I’d never get to do this again. “I’m sorry for everything, Grandma. I know I was difficult. I’ll try to be better.” “You were always very spirited; I hope all your dreams come true” were the last words she said to me before I left the hospital, a mess, about to take the next step in making those dreams come true, whatever they were now. I landed in Chicago the following day. It was January 2011 and the Midwest winter cut through my bones. Life goes on. When I woke up the next morning, my mom told me my grandmother had passed away peacefully that night. Her last words were “I’m going to miss Becky.” I’d miss her too.

I’ve always found, throughout all of my endeavors, that confidence is fleeting and largely circumstantial.

I put together a promo akin to my old indie character, Rebecca Knox, decorated with rhymes and puns and doused in energy. Rattling through it, I felt I was giving the Gettysburg Address, for the amount of confidence I had in my content. However, I couldn’t tell if it was the shits or maybe they just wanted to see something else when Regal spoke up, in his very Regal voice, distinct yet soft-spoken. “Tell us your story.” Without the armor of my prerehearsed “masterpiece,” I told the class my life story up until this moment. Opening up about my struggles with leaving wrestling and spending years trying to fill the void it left caused my voice to tremble and tears to fall from my eyes. I was on the brink of a whole new world.

As soon as I finished my spiel to Rami, I rounded a corner to meet another face from the past. This time, it so happened to be someone I went to college with in Chicago. He went by the wrestling name of Aiden English and was nothing but nice to me in the time we were in school, but now I feared he was also wondering how on earth I had managed to get here. Ugh.

So with the same gusto and desperation, I walked over chirpily. “Hello! I’m Rebecca!” Here’s my hand; please shake it. He looked up, a modicum of warmth on his stoic face. “Ettore,” he said plainly, and unlike my last encounter went for the shake. However, just as he was about to engage in full clasp I realized, in my haste, that my hands were still wet! But by now, my arm had reached maximum extension. Quickly and nervously I blurted out, “My hands are wet!!” Too late to turn back now, he courteously shook my hand as his face curdled in disgust, the sound of moisture squelching between our skin. Great. Now he hates me too.…

The mantra of the PC was “Perception is reality”—i.e., it didn’t matter if you worked hard, as long as it looked like you worked hard. It didn’t matter if you cared, as long as it looked like you cared. It didn’t matter if you really had what it takes to make it, as long as you looked like you did. I suppose that is essentially how the world operates, more so with the growth of social media, where everyone is attempting to create their own perceived reality. The reality is the perception of me was awful. And the perception of this particular injury was “she’s faking it” or “she can’t hack it.

As if I weren’t having a hard enough time with all of this, I was counselled by Bill to “move like a girl.” What the fuck did that even mean? I was a girl, and I was moving—what more do you want? Wrists flailing wildly? Random enticing hair flips? To drop down into a split at any given moment? I was truly baffled by this weird stereotypical instruction. I was so despaired of that one of the coaches told a girl in my class matter-of-factly, “She’s never going to make it.

There was Madeline, which reminds me of those French cakes, hardly the toughest things in the world. Then there was Becky Lynch. I wasn’t sure about the Lynch part. There’s a harshness to it that doesn’t fall trippingly off the tongue, but I liked keeping part of my real name. Considering I was already pushing my luck by even having a job here, I didn’t think I had the ability to ask for more options. Best not to highlight any more difficulties to my existence than the incompetence I was already bringing. So I went with Lynch. Regardless of my feelings of mild disdain towards it.

Bill would throw various tests my way, such as asking me, along with several others who were likely on the chopping block, to come in on our rare days off and “roll around.” If you didn’t respond to the invite, it was likely your days were numbered. If you did respond, you’d come in and do nonsensical drills that were borderline dangerous. Poor Frenchy even tore his ACL on one of these “tests.

In the midst of my distress, I had a strange realization: I wasn’t a bad person; I was just a bad wrestler. It might sound silly, but differentiating between the two seemed to take the pressure off. I had been beating myself up so much for not getting the hang of things that I was starting to hate myself. But I didn’t need to. I could be proud of myself for trying and forgive myself for messing up. And it could be worse; I could be out with a torn ACL for nine months. Giving myself that leeway allowed me to start believing in myself. Finally, I was doubting myself less and changing my perspective as a whole. In a weird way, being left out and underestimated became my biggest blessing. Because I was given nothing, I was above nothing. Therefore, I could make the most of any morsel of an opportunity that came my way. Sure, I’d likely have to beg for said morsel of opportunity, but because I wasn’t getting anything otherwise, who cared?!

With my high heels that I couldn’t properly walk in on and my dress that was so snug that one wrong move might mean I would moon all of Catering, I felt so unnatural and unlike myself as I stood around awkwardly making sure I introduced myself to everyone, with dry hands this time. To my shock, someone actually came up to me and started a conversation. And not just anyone: he was Seth Rollins (real name Colby Lopez), one of WWE’s biggest stars, one-third of its hottest faction, The Shield, i.e., the Backstreet Boys of wrestling, along with Roman Reigns and Dean Ambrose. Colby had a plate of food in one hand and a sheet of paper in another. “Hey, I’m Colby.” “Nice to meet you, I’m Rebecca.” “What’s your story? Why are you here?” he asked, genuinely interested. An avalanche of words fell out of my mouth, and I divulged my whole life story up until that very moment, with my very short dress and my poorly done hair. By the time I was finished, his plate of food was gone. He had an ease about him. A familiar feeling, like we had been friends for years. As if I could tell him anything and everything and he’d understand. He was a megastar and held himself as such but was also personable and down-to-earth. We talked for forty-five minutes until he was summoned to work. “Good talk,” he said calmly and coolly as he walked away. “You too!” I yelled after him, nearly falling over in my high heels, not at all calm. Or cool. I liked it up here. I had even just made a new friend.

That Fergal lad looks like a real douchebag,” I jeered.

There was no amount of silly I wouldn’t look for this thing. Even if it meant something like, I don’t know, doing an embarrassing awkward Irish jig on my TV debut that would live on forever. I’m kidding; I would never sink that low.

My first outing and I hadn’t stunk up the joint. Things were off to a hot start. As I began to take my boots off Starr slipped me an envelope. “It will be bigger next time.” I opened it to see thirty dollars. He might as well have handed me $1 million. After spending three years paying to wrestle, I was finally making money. All told, I would do it for free. Anything more was a bonus.

I do try too hard. I so badly want to entertain the people who came to see me, and prove to myself and the world that I am the best. But ultimately, what trying too hard is is a confession that you don’t completely trust yourself to be good enough yet.

One such muscle-bound freak—six-three, so pale he was practically transparent, with hair as orange as a clementine—went by the name of Sheamus O’Shaunessy. We scoffed at the pure Irishness of it. Like he was trying to get Vince McMahon’s attention all the way from this school hall with the two hundred people in attendance. “Pffft. As if. Bet he can’t work for shit,” we sneered as if we were the authority on working, regular Dean Malenkos we thought we were. We quickly shut up as we watched him club the ever-living shite out of some poor young fella. Knowing full well that if this Sheamus fella did stick to it, he would be snapped up by WWE in a heartbeat. What a sellout.

We now had a slogan for the movement. It was powerful. Anyone could be The Man. It didn't matter your background or your gender or what you do. You just needed to claim your greatness and not let anyone tell you differently.