Starve The Ego

Conor McGregor sat under the sink, toiling with the wrench. He was called to fix a leaky joint. A few turns here, a few turns there—click.

He got it. Or so he thought.

Seconds later, dirty water spewed from the joint, drenching him—almost insulting him.

I can’t do this anymore, he said to himself as he wiped the grime from his face.

He stepped outside for air, remembering the crisp snap of punches. Thinking about his heroes. Bruce Lee. Muhammed Ali. He was a youth boxing champ—but other martial arts were calling.

Plumbing wasn’t his life. It wasn’t even his path; he took the apprenticeship at the request of his parents. But he couldn’t keep living someone else's dream. He went back under that sink and decided.

He would rather go broke chasing greatness than be wealthy living a lie. No backup plan. No guarantees. Just fifteen years old, pure belief, and a left hand.

He was starving. Not just for money and a living, but for greatness. He was talented, sure. But when you're starving, you have no choice but to work. Hunger builds work ethic. He lived in the gym. Training. Learning. Growing.

At 18, he made his mixed martial arts debut.

First round TKO victory.

I can really do this he thought.

At 22, he signed with Cage Warriors Fighting Championship. He went on a tear, winning eight fights in a row. In 2012, he captured both the featherweight and lightweight titles—becoming the first European fighter to hold two belts in two weight classes simultaneously.

The UFC took notice. Dana White flew to Dublin in 2013, offered him a contract, and Conor delivered: TKO victory in 67 seconds

Then he ran through the featherweight division, winning six fights in a row, including winning the interim featherweight title against Chad Mendes. But he wasn’t done. He didn’t want scraps; he wanted the crown.

Jose Aldo was in his crosshairs.

Aldo is one of the greatest featherweights to ever live. Top 5 pound-for-pound. Ten years undefeated. He defended his title 9 times across the WEC and UFC.

They met at UFC 194 in Las Vegas, Nevada.

December 12th, 2015.

The building crackles with tension. Camera flashes, chants, and the commentary team echo across the arena. Conor looks loose and relaxed, Aldo looks tense. This is Aldo’s tenth title defense and he’s feeling the pressure.

The referee looks at Conor

“Sir, are you ready”? Conor nods with confidence.

Looks at Aldo

“Sir, are you ready?” Aldo nods, jaw clenched.

“FIGHT!”

Conor throws a low side kick to Aldo’s lead leg. Then he fires a quick straight left — misses but finds his range.

Aldo lunges forward, feints a straight, then throws a lead hook over the top.

Conor pulls back, rotates his hips, and detonates a left straight through the center.

Aldo crumbles to the canvas.

He doesn’t scream. Doesn’t throw his hands up. He runs to the side of the Octagon and leaps to the top of the fence. He stares into the crowd—silent. Soaking in the moment.

It wasn’t a fluke. It was prophecy fulfilled.

He saw it all beforehand—not in dreams, but in film study, in shadowboxing, in visualization. Every movement was rehearsed. Every outcome anticipated.

Mystic Mac wasn’t magic. It was obsession. Preparation disguised as prediction.

Slip

After this, Conor became a sensation. The hype was real, or so he told himself. He was set to fight Rafael dos Anjos for the lightweight belt, but RDA pulled out with a broken foot. Nate Diaz stepped in on short notice. But Mystic Mac wasn’t prepared. After Aldo, Conor expected to run through everyone.

Not Diaz. Not even close.

Conor dropped Diaz early, but Diaz didn’t break. He weathered the storm and started tagging him with brutal combinations. Conor was fading, collapsing under the pressure.

Diaz smelled blood in the water and swarmed him like a shark.

Jab. Cross. Pivot. Another jab. A hook. A Stockton slap for good measure.

Conor stumbles back, not just from the punches, but from the realization: I can't win.

In desperation, he shoots a takedown on Diaz. Sloppy. Telegraphed.

Diaz sees it from a mile away. He sprawls, reverses, and takes mount.

Diaz rains down punches from the top like a hellstorm.

Conor turns and gives up his back. Diaz takes it and sinks in the choke. Conor taps. After insulting Nates’ intelligence, his work ethic, his ability, Conor got humbled. In front of millions.

“Nate Diaz, you just shook up the world. How's that feel?” Joe Rogan, the head commentator asked.

“Aye, I’m not surprised, motherfuckers.” Diaz replied.

Diaz didn’t just beat Conor, he exposed him. Conor gassed. Then he panicked. Then he tapped. His ego made him feel invincible. Until his lungs burned, until the illusion shattered.

When you don’t prepare, you invite failure. Don’t bank on your talent saving you in the clutch moments because it won't. The second fatigue sets in; your talent and hype will vanish.

Conor didn't make excuses.

“It is what it is” he said. “I came up short.”

Rise

He knew what went wrong. He pushed aside his grief and made room for the old hunger, that same hunger he felt underneath that kitchen sink in Dublin. The rematch was booked, and he had work to do.

His camp was brutal. He attacked the dawn getting straight to work. He did pad work until his shoulders screamed. He grappled until his lungs collapsed. He sparred until five rounds felt like two. Until panic was replaced by pacing. Come fight night, win or lose, he redeemed himself through his preparation. He gave his absolute best in that camp.

UFC 202. Las Vegas Nevada. Same building. Same crowd. Same energy.

But Conor came out firing.

In the first two rounds, his left hand was a sniper rifle—clean, surgical. He cracked Diaz over and over, slicing him up, snapping his head back and dropping him to the canvas.

But Nate wouldn’t go away.

Like a demon, he absorbed the shots with a smile on his face and kept moving forward. In the third, he cornered Conor, trapped him against the cage, and began dissecting him—short elbows, tight uppercuts, blood splashing from Conor’s brow. Conor staggered and dropped his hands.

Then the bell rang. He survived. Barely.

Diaz knew Conor was fading, so he started walking him down. Conor turned his back to him and ran away from him across the octagon. Diaz howled, pointed, and mocked him. The crowd erupted.

But this time, Conor didn’t break. He found his second wind and dug deep.

He forced breath through tired lungs. His arms and legs felt like steel, but he kept firing. Kicks, counters, clinch breaks. He stayed on the plan, landing clean and devastating shots on Diaz in the fourth and the fifth.

The decision came—split, razor-thin. Controversial. Some booed. Some cheered. But both men gave it everything they had. And for Conor, that was enough. But he wasn’t interested in staying even. He wanted legacy. History. He wanted that second belt.

Icon

RDA was out, and in was Eddie Alvarez, a viscious brawler with grit and knockout power.

The pair met at UFC 205 in Madison Square Garden.

Conor gave the best performance of his career. He stuffed takedowns, picked shots with sniper precision, and made a world-class champion look like a regional hopeful.

Three minutes into the second round, Alvarez overcommitted on a right hand. Conor slipped just out of range and answered with a brutal four-piece combo.

Alvarez fell apart and the ref stopped the fight.

That was it. Two rounds. Two belts. History made.

“I just want to say from the bottom of my heart, I’d like to take this chance to apologize… to absolutely nobody! The double champ does what the fuck he wants!” Conor said in his post fight interview.

Real humble.

Then he went to boxing. When Floyd Mayweather called, Conor didn’t blink. 49-0. A defensive genius. A ghost in gloves.

Conor stepped into Floyd’s world—no kicks, no clinch, no elbows—and for a few rounds, he looked sharp. Crisp jabs. Clean lefts. The crowd roared.

But by Round 9, the weight hit him. His mouth hung open, legs fading. In the tenth, Floyd walked him down and finished the job.

He gave up 75% of his arsenal and almost went the distance. It wasn’t delusion. It was belief—so strong it nearly bent reality.

In the UFC, he was bringing home about a million dollars a fight. This fight? One hundred and thirty million dollars. That kind of money doesn’t just change a man.It reveals him.

False Idol

After the Mayweather fight, Conor was fed. Gone was the hungry plumber. In came the celebrity. A yacht here. A Bugatti there. Rolexes, suits, interviews. Instead of defending his belts, he slept in.

His team warned him. But ego hates the truth. It whispers lies to keep you from facing yourself. While Conor played king, the sport moved on. The UFC stripped him of his belts due to inactivity and his legal offenses outside the cage.

A new champion rose: Khabib Nurmagomedov. He came from the war-torn mountains of Dagestan, where childhood was replaced with hardship. That kind of place doesn’t raise superstars. It raises survivors.

Conor couldn’t resist. He needed relevance. So he returned to challenge the new king. But it wasn’t hunger. It was ego in costume. During the press conferences, he crossed every line. Family. Religion. Country. He called Khabib an inbred rat. Called his father a coward. Called his manager a terrorist.

And Khabib took it all in. Quiet. Focused.

UFC 229 shattered records—2.4 million buys.

But what happened next wasn’t hype. It was violence. Khabib mauled Conor for four rounds. In the second, he faked a takedown and launched an overhand all the way from Dagestan. It cracked Conor clean. Somehow he survived but Khabib didn't let him breathe.

In the fourth, Khabib forced Conor against the cage, took his back, and neck cranked him, forcing the tap.

Conor sat against the cage, trembling, gasping. He knew he fucked up. He knew right then and there that he took it too far. This wasn't Diaz 1, it was worse.

“Let’s talk now! Let’s talk now!” Khabib shouted, pointing at him.

Then he leapt over the cage—straight into Conor’s corner. They had been hurling insults during the fight. So Khabib finished the feud right then and there.

After the chaos, Khabib’s father extended a hand. He invited Conor to Dagestan. A gesture of peace. After the insults, the attacks on his family and faith—he still offered grace.

Conor never responded.

Death of a King

In 2020, Conor returned at UFC 246 and steamrolled Donald Cerrone in 40 seconds. Shoulder strikes. A clean head kick. Lights out.

Was hungry Conor back?

A year later, at UFC 257, he faced Dustin Poirier—a man he’d beaten years prior.

But this time, Conor was... respectful? No trash talk. He actually praised Poirier as a man and a fighter.

But on fight night, he was flat-footed and one-dimensional. Dustin chopped him up with calf kicks, then finished him in the second.

Conor was actually gracious in defeat—briefly.

By the trilogy, he reverted to the old act. But no more swagger—just desperation.

“Your wife’s in my DMs,” he shouted, trying to conjure a ghost.

“You used to be better than that,” Poirier replied.

On fight night, Dustin dominated. In the second round, Conor threw a leg kick. Dustin checked it. Conor stepped back—

CRACK.

His tibia folded beneath him like rubber.

The fight—and maybe the career—was over.

Despite a successful rehab, there’s no return on the horizon.

Starve the Ego

Here was a man destined for greatness, but his ambition and ego corrupted him and brought him to the lowest of lows. He thought making history made him untouchable—above rules and basic decency. Sexual assault allegations. A rape conviction in civil court. Robbery. Battery. Racism. Dangerous driving. A lifestyle allegedly fueled by cocaine.

Ambition is fuel. It builds empires, innovates, it's the driving force of human progress. But unchecked, it corrupts you and turns your soul septic. It turned Conor into a bully. Instead of thriving on the thrill of pushing his limits, becoming his best self, he thrived on making other people feel weak. When that didn’t work, he attacked them personally.

Ego sets traps. It seduces you with lies. "You're better than them” it says. “You don’t need to work hard”. When you listen, you get a rude fucking awakening.The world is full of Khabibs and Diazes—waiting to expose you

You want to be the best? Then stop coasting. Stop pretending that “potential” is enough. It isn’t. Your past wins? Irrelevant. Your story? Doesn’t matter. There is no finish line. If you think you're finished—then you are.

You think you're safe because you're talented? So did Conor. Then he fell. Don’t chase greatness if you aren’t willing to starve for it. Fake hunger, and someone else will take your spot.

Material fades. The money. The hype. But the process doesn’t. The sweat at 6 a.m. The ache in your hands. The quiet breakthrough mid-flow.

That’s what lasts.

Because it’s not about what you get—it’s about what you become.

Even if you make history, you can’t afford the luxury of being finished.

You always have work to do—but that’s where the meaning lives.

Starve the ego—or you’re next.