By Yibei Chen

Everything looked blurry.

My opponent moved away from me. Her grip on my neck had loosened—like I’d just escaped the choke. Everything slowed down. Colors bled at the edges, and the outlines of people melted into a living painting. Sound dissolved into the air, as if it had never existed at all. A pair of black pants stepped into view. I couldn’t lift my head. They crouched beside me. Oh—it was the referee. Why was he coming toward me? His lips were moving, but no meaning reached me.

“What?” I asked.

His lips moved again. I still couldn’t understand him.

Was he speaking Portuguese? All the referees were Brazilian; I’d been told they only spoke Portuguese on the mat. The sounds didn’t just feel foreign—they felt like nonwords, as if I wasn’t meant to understand them as language.

“What?” I asked again.

Oh—was I okay?

“Yes, I’m okay. What happened?”

“You passed out, but you came back very quickly.”

“What? I passed out? No.”

The match was already over. The referee walked to the center of the mat and had us stand on either side of him. He raised my opponent’s hand. He announced her win. I looked at the timer. Less than a minute. No blue belt had ever choked me that fast. I couldn’t believe it—just like I couldn’t believe I had passed out.

How had it gone wrong so fast?

We had started from standing. Her right hand was on my collar, and mine was on hers. Her left hand tried to break my grip. I reached for her belt with my left hand, but it took time—her long arms kept pushing me away.

The moment I grabbed her belt, my brain began calculating: should I attempt the sacrificing throw, or go for her arm? Her arm was stiffly extended—perfect for an arm lock. But then she pulled guard before I could decide. She sat down, trying to trap me in closed guard. I grabbed her pants and began passing. I aimed to drop my head on her belly, pin her legs, and slide to the side.

Soon, we were twisted—her back on the mat, her legs raised against me. My head pressed into her belly; my hands gripped her pants. Her right hand snaked around my collar and locked in a loop choke.

Pressure gathered at my neck, tight and sharp, like a rope pulling from inside.

My brain kept running calculations. Should I tap? No—it was too soon. No blue belt had ever choked me out in a competition. It shouldn’t be possible.

Then everything went loose. She moved away.

Had I passed her guard?

I couldn’t tell. I saw only shadows at the edge of the mat. My ears were muffled, like they’d been covered in plastic film. The referee patted my back. His voice came from a distance, like an echo returning from a far-off valley.

I stood.

Should we continue?

No—they had announced her win.

I was fine. I could still fight.

Why didn’t they let me?

I didn’t accept the loss.

I was still reeling. My body had recovered, but my mind hadn’t. Then they called my name again—twenty minutes later, the second fight began.

We started standing, and she began moving in circles, her arms withdrawn, waiting for me to extend mine first. Her coach had probably told her how dangerous it could be if I attacked her arms, as I had in the last fight. Then, as soon as my hand touched her collar, she quickly pulled guard again. And just like that, we were back in the same trap. The same legs, the same setup. I knew what was coming—and I knew what I had to avoid. My goal was to press her long legs to one side, pass to her side, and establish side control, while being careful not to get caught in the same loop choke. However, I lost my balance, and before I could recover, she tilted me onto my side.

This was bad.

If I weren’t on top, my chances of winning would be low. They would pin me to the ground. At most, I would manage to get one of their legs—usually the right leg—and maintain a half guard. It was hard for them to choke me from the half guard position unless they could isolate and control my left arm. Usually, they couldn’t. Their leg would get stuck; I would struggle to trap them. But then, they would figure out a way to pass my guard, I would trap their leg again, they would pass again, and they would keep scoring points until the match ended.

That was exactly what happened; she scored points until the match was over.

There were moments I could have taken risks—chances to flip the match, to gamble. But something held me back. I didn’t dare.

A week ago, on a Sunday, before the competition.

This had been the third choke during that 10-minute roll. It had been impossible to escape, just like the previous two. My training partner’s arms were stronger than my legs. I was only halfway to his height. He had pinned me to the ground, and his forearm crushed across my neck. My back was flat—the worst position for escaping. I tried to bridge, to shrimp—nothing moved. I would have to tap if I didn’t want to pass out and risk a brain injury. Just tap, as I had for the previous two. Tap quick, tap fast.

I noticed that my fingers didn’t seem to make the tapping gesture, nor did my mouth plan to say the word “tap” aloud.

“Please tap,” my brain urged.

Nothing.

The pressure around my neck tightened. He wasn’t going to give up. He was going for the submission.

“Please tap.”

The blood rushed to my forehead like it wanted to burst through. My mind swung between consciousness and unconsciousness. Still nothing. I was still trying to escape; he was still applying pressure to the choke; my brain was still pushing me to tap. Neither of us had given up.

“You will pass out, and if you’re unconscious for more than five seconds, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life,” my brain warned.

I just couldn’t.

I couldn’t tap.

I didn’t want to pass out either.

I didn’t know what to do.

So much pain.

I kept thinking it was just pain. That if I held on, I could win.

I burst into tears, sobbing and coughing at the same time. I failed. Everyone had stopped, looking at me as if my crying were the prelude to a horror movie. The choking had wounded my ego more deeply than it had hurt my neck. My stubbornness had wronged me more than it had shocked the gym.

I heard a deep sigh from within.

If that sigh could speak, it would have said, “I’m so disappointed in you.”

I buried my face into my left arm. I didn’t want to see anyone’s face. My coach came over.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

My training partner kept apologizing.

All I could do was nod or shake my head. I couldn’t speak. It felt like words would release a scream I couldn’t contain.

I ran into the bathroom and shut the door.

“For God’s sake, what are you doing?”

I spat out the same curse word five times in one second. I looked in the mirror. I was a stranger.

The eyes.

“What were you thinking? I don’t understand. What is this ego for? What do you want to prove? Prove to whom?”

I stared into my eyes as if trying to understand them for the first time. If I stared too long, the image of myself would fall to pieces. Looking at myself felt like attacking and resisting at the same time. The forces canceled each other out, but the damage always left its mark.

I looked into the mirror and didn’t know what to say.

I came back to the mat. My coach asked again, more concerned, “Are you okay? Why don’t you tap? They are bigger and stronger than you. One day, you’ll end up killing yourself.”

“I know.”

But I was a higher belt.

What was this jiu-jitsu for, if not to empower the smaller fighter to take on giants and win?

If I were truly skilled, shouldn’t I be able to overcome biology and beat a 100-pound heavier white belt?

Why couldn’t I?

Because my jiu-jitsu wasn’t as good as I wished it to be. Not yet, not enough.

The second day of the competition.

My match was in the afternoon. I had only one opponent. I checked in and entered the waiting area. Each fight appeared like a matchup card—two names on the screen, one at the top, one at the bottom, with the match time at the top corner. My name was green, but my opponent’s name was red—this meant she hadn’t checked in yet. That was five minutes before the match.

Five minutes later, she still hadn’t shown up. Ten minutes, thirty minutes, forty-five minutes, one hour… she still hadn’t come. I couldn’t leave the waiting area. If she arrived while I was gone, the match would begin, and I would be disqualified—a direct loss.

Waiting only intensified my longing to fight. I had been craving this match since the second I lost the day before. Second by second, minute by minute, the air fermented my desire to fight. But she never came.

Other female fighters were also left without matches.

“Can I fight one of them if we both agree?” I asked the person in charge of matches.

“No,” he said, with a sorry smile.

After an hour and a half, they told me:

“We’re disqualifying her now. You can leave with your gold medal.”

Who came here just wanting gold?

We came to fight.

It felt like water rushing down from a high mountain, about to leap into the ocean, only to be stopped by a floodgate that appeared out of nowhere. The urge to fight had to be shoved back, inch by inch, into my chest, where it collected and rose toward my head.

Suddenly, I had an enormous headache. The pain transformed into anger.

Her absence had robbed me of my chance to win. I didn’t even get a second chance to prove that I could win. My record from this competition will forever hold two losses.

Inside my head, I screamed:

“I hate losing. I’m good at this game, but why do I keep losing? What the hell is going on?”

Why compete?

If I truly loved this sport and wanted to master the art, I should have been intrinsically motivated to hone my skills rather than relying on external recognition, like a gold medal. I was intrinsically motivated.

Why did it feel like I was faking something I truly believed in?

What made competitions so special? It was just another roll.

Everyone wants the gold, but what does it actually mean? A symbol of skill? A token of recognition? I only needed to defeat one or two people to earn it, and those people weren’t necessarily the best in the jiu-jitsu world.

So why do we so often feel nervous, anxious, or even cowardly during competitions? It’s just a couple of rolls.

Yes, in front of many people—but no one would remember the losers anyway. Losing isn’t a public humiliation.

And yet, it feels like it is.

Not because others are watching—but because we are.

Because competition forces us to meet the version of ourselves we try to leave behind.

Without competition, I wouldn’t feel this strong desire to sharpen my game.

Practice would stay practice. A hobby would stay a hobby.

And a hobby can’t transform you.

But I wanted change. Being the same version of myself felt unbearable.

I wanted out, out of my habits, my doubts, the version of me that kept falling short.

But transformation comes with risk.

In real life, failure can cost you everything.

Jiu-jitsu is a sandbox; if I fail here, the damage stays contained.

But if I succeed, that success might light up everything beyond the mat.

“I’m so mad I didn’t get a fight. I’m walking away from this competition a loser.”

“Your friends won’t care whether you win or lose. No one cares.”

“But I care. This is my competition. I’ve trained for this—hours, weeks, months. I’ve fought this match in my dreams.”

“That attitude is bad. There’s always someone better. You have to accept it.”

“I keep losing to the same person! God damn it! She’s not even that good. Why can’t I be mad?”

“Think about this…”

My phone lit up again and again. My rational friend kept sending his logical analysis.

I refused to read.

Trying to analyze emotions mid-deluge is like dissecting a volcano while it erupts. The heat will bury you—and everyone near you—before you understand a thing.

I went back to my office, a glass-walled room in a seven-story, square-shaped building with a glass ceiling. There was a dance event on the third floor. Tango music seeped into my office on the fifth.

I shut the door and screamed in a crying voice:

Why can’t I be mad?

I don’t care whether you care. But I fucking care!

If the air didn’t shake, it must have been my visual system fracturing. That’s how violently the anger erupted. The glass wall seemed to wave.

I lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. From that angle, it seemed impossibly far.

No lights were on, yet the dark still felt too bright.

I closed my eyes, imagining myself from above—my arms at my sides, my legs bent to one side.

It looked like a death scene, just without blood.

I felt nothing.

No anger, no frustration, no sadness.

Nothing was gone, but nothing was there either.

Time felt still, yet eternal.

Tutor｜MAYA Goel

Maya Goel grew up in a rainforest in the Western Ghats of India. She has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of East Anglia and an MPhil in Anthropocene Studies from the University of Cambridge， along with a BA in English. Maya is currently writing a book, and her work-blending essay and memoir—explores the complexity found between art and science, often pushing the boundaries of nature and place-based writing. She has been published by the Indian Quarterly and other magazines, and has worked as an editorial assistant on a volume of essays critically assessing the IPCC, published by Cambridge University Press. Maya enjoys lyrical prose that is invested in form, aesthetics, and strong critical inquiry. Some of her favourite authors include Virginia Woolf, Robin Wall Kimmerer， Maggie Nelson, and Susan Abulhawa.

Comment：

Hi Yiyi,

You’ve done an amazing job in condensing and rewriting this story! Your descriptions are sharp and powerful, and there’s a lot of feeling packed into simple actions - a perfect mirroring of your energy during a fight. I have only done a few weeks of self defense classes, but your writing made me miss it and wish I had gone for more. There is something deeply visceral in the way you communicate the hunger, desire, and frustration - this is your strength in writing, so don’t lose that. Even the introspective stream-of-consciousness sections earlier are necessary to get you where you want to be. They show deep thinking and a commitment to honest understanding - which is one of the marks of a good writer. This piece feels like part of a larger story which will unfold as you explore yourself - keep this in mind for a longer project. Maybe you’ll have a book-length memoir about jiu jitsu someday. You have a talent, so however difficult and frustrating it becomes, don’t give up – and don’t stop writing!

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