THE NONLINEAR PATH 22: What Ozzy Got Right
The Art Of Learning To Fight Your Own Fight
On the morning of July 22, 2025, my almost-fourteen-year-old son came out of his room and solemnly said,
“Mom… Ozzy just died.”
We both sat there in silence. My eyes welled up. It wasn’t a surprise, especially after seeing his most recent concert. But it was a marker in time.
It wasn’t the news itself that stunned me... It was that he was the one to tell me, my son. That he cared. That it meant something to him, too.
Ozzy’s passing... like the passing of other icons... defines an era. It causes us to reflect on how some individuals shape our lives, whether we know them personally or just through their work and cultural influence.
My son has known Ozzy from the beginning. Ozzy had been an icon decades before my son was born. We played his music in the car. His friends gifted him Black Sabbath records at birthday parties. Yes, we were those kinds of parents.
His favorite song? N.I.B.
I reflected on this after Ozzy died. How many people... how many generations... had this one man and his music touched? The outpouring of love and grief was intense. I stumbled upon a post of moms who had learned of Ozzy’s death from their children. I had joined a new club I never could’ve predicted would exist.
What made him so popular for so long had nothing to do with bats. It had everything to do with Ozzy being unapologetically Ozzy.
Ozzy just was… to the end.
I’d heard that kind of truth before in another area of my life.
Fight Your Own Fight
Our school, our dojo, had two main training rooms for martial arts classes: a bright matted room for beginning Cun Tao training, and a darker room in back with a floating wood floor for more advanced classes and fighting.
I loved the candlelit atmosphere, the high ceilings and tropical-feeling fans, the sound of gamelan music bringing deep introspection. It was a spiritual place... a place to balance the yin of meditation with the yang of combat.
The colors were surprisingly reminiscent of metal: blacks, whites, reds, and golds as primaries. Our uniform: black pants and black T-shirt, with a gold dragon logo.
The fight itself is foggy. But I remember this clearly:
I was circling my male opponent. He was getting the better of me.
And then:
“Fight your own fight, Mas Michelle,” came the voice of my teacher from the sidelines.
Huh? What does that mean?
“He’s drawing you into his fight, making you do what he wants.
You have to fight your own fight. Decide how you want it to go.”
Easier said than done. How do I do that?
The words were new. I had to let them soak in... while getting my head knocked off in the process. But they were a revelation… to my fighting, to my life. It was as if I’d just been given permission to do what I wanted. To lead. To control. To decide.
How glorious. And what a fucking burden.
Now I was responsible for my choices and actions.
I’ve been on that path ever since, maybe 25 or 30 years now. I might finally be cracking the code. And reflecting on Ozzy in his passing has helped to galvanize it.
Home For The Misfits: The Irony Of The Heavy Metal ‘Family’
So how does one fight their own fight? How does one become oneself unapologetically?
It starts with feeling safe.
Safe enough to explore.
Safe enough to mess up.
Safe enough to get weird before it all makes sense.
And here’s the paradox...
The places that feel the safest for misfits often don’t look safe at all.
Black leather. Screaming guitars. Blood-red album covers. But that’s where many of us first felt like we belonged.
I grew up in the world of music. Bay Area radio stations like KSJO and KOME blared rock and metal across the neighborhoods. From the tape decks of muscle cars to the clock radio in my bedroom, it was always playing.
My dad moonlighted as a rock musician in the ’70s. He’d bring home 45s of the latest songs, learn the guitar and vocal parts for an upcoming gig, and then hand the record to me when he was done. By the time I was ten, I had a record collection. By eleven, when MTV broke, I was primed.
At first, Black Sabbath was “my dad’s music.” I knew it, but I didn’t follow it... yet.
When Ozzy resurfaced solo with Blizzard of Ozz, something shifted. That was my jam. Raw power. Toughness. Weirdness. It didn’t care if it scared you.
I wasn’t quite a tomboy. I loved fashion, hair, and makeup. But I also wanted to ride BMX bikes, skate, and blast heavy music. I was a strange mix of following the rules while simultaneously rebelling against them.
I didn’t know how to reconcile the opposing parts of myself out in the world...
but in the metal scene, it worked.
Like the punk scene I’d become part of later, metal welcomed variety, uniqueness, and new ideas. Pushing boundaries was not just allowed... it was encouraged. Of course, there was a “uniform,” a group identity. But trying something different didn’t get you kicked out.
Ex-communication wasn’t a thing in the metal world. You could evolve, get loud, burn out, come back... and the scene would still be there. It made room for your full, messy self.
It was the first space where I didn’t have to choose sides, where the contradictions didn’t need to be cleaned up. I could be loud and soft, fierce and sensitive, angry and joyful. That, too, is fighting your own fight.
Ozzy helped create that space.
Not just through music, but through consistency. Through absurdity. Through joy. Through just being Ozzy.
He embraced the dichotomy of inspecting the dark to uncover the light. What a joyful man. Ozzy made us laugh. He made us feel welcome. He made it safe to scream when we needed to.
His oddities allowed us to be with our own. He gave us permission to be our weird selves... loudly, consistently, and with integrity. In his own strange, enduring way.
Uncovering Our Identity Through Vulnerability
Sharon Osbourne once said what first drew her to Ozzy was his vulnerability.
“I just thought he was the funniest, sweetest guy I'd ever met because he was so vulnerable about everything.”
Not what most people expect when they think of Ozzy. But maybe that’s exactly the point.
He wasn’t performing a character. He was just... himself. Loud. Strange. Broken. Funny. Real. And people felt that. Vulnerability isn’t what sells stadiums. But it’s what makes people stay. It’s the thing underneath the spectacle that keeps it from being empty.
Ozzy didn’t lead with vulnerability—he just didn’t cover it up. He let it live inside the show.
That’s the harder path, especially for creatives, because we’re trained to look outward.
To emulate. To seek the right reference. To hide behind what already works.
But here’s the thing:
You can’t create something original if you’re not willing to be seen. Not just your talent. You.
The Courage of Self-Knowledge
Fighting your own fight means first knowing:
What do I actually want?
What do I actually feel?
Who am I when no one’s watching?
That’s terrifying for a lot of people. Because when you’ve been shaped by teachers, trends, mentors, social media, algorithms, expectations, the line between who you are and who you’ve borrowed gets blurry.
And here’s the part nobody really talks about:
Choosing to be yourself—truly—is one of the hardest, most courageous fights there is.
It’s not about being loud. It’s not about being right. It’s about being honest, even when it costs you. Especially when it costs you.
Filling Your Own Boots
I’ve seen it everywhere... in design, in leadership, in art. Talented people get close to something great…and then instead of stepping into their own path,they start tracing someone else’s.
They don’t even realize they’re doing it. Sometimes they were asked to. Sometimes they were taught to. Sometimes they were just trying to keep the job, keep the peace, keep it moving.
There’s safety in mimicry. There’s applause in imitation. There’s a clear reward system for playing inside the lines.
And no roadmap for originality. Just risk.
But the point was never to become the next Ozzy. The point is to become the first you. That’s how you fill your own boots. Not by performing louder...but by standing more fully in your own shape.
Not with flash. Not with noise. But with clarity, integrity, and your own damn voice.
Going Vast
Ozzy didn’t just “stay relevant.” He expanded, he adapted. He reached.
He became something bigger than music…because he never stopped being himself. That’s what going vast looks like.
In martial arts, going vast is about expansion. Range, energy, presence. You don’t shrink to fit the moment, you move with full force into it. You take up your space.
Ozzy took up his space. Loudly. Fully. Without apology.
He wasn’t interested in staying clean, staying cool, staying current. He was interested in staying real. That’s what kept him vast. Across decades. Across continents. Across generations. He kept reaching people because he never abandoned himself.
That’s what longevity really is…not fame or virality. It is depth, integrity, and resonance. It’s what happens when you fight your own fight long enough for it to matter. That’s what we’re all capable of...if we’re willing to go there. If we’re willing to go vast.
When you really fight your own fight, you don’t just become yourself... you become bigger than yourself.
That’s what Ozzy got right.