I’m going to confess something right off the bat.
I originally started learning Judo because it looked strong, cool, and badass. In hindsight, this was rooted in an insecurity — these were all qualities that I wanted for myself, because I thought of myself as someone who was weak, uncool, and kind of a pussy compared to the martial artists and athletes I saw on the internet.
I was desperate to stop feeling that way, and to be “reborn as strong” like in a Captain America movie, so I gave Judo everything I could. I was in a hurry to progress, and I was very “competitive.”
I set my goal to earn a black belt, perhaps believing deep within that it was the key to solve my problems. “When I finally put on that belt, maybe I will not feel weak anymore.”
With such a powerful motivation, I wanted progress at all cost.
I showed up every day like it was my religion, and hated skipping training. I got very good at technique.
But I just couldn’t throw people in randori. I hated being handed my ass (which happened all the time, no matter the size or skill level of the opponent), and it started taking a toll on me mentally. The more I trained, the more frustrated I got.
This pattern repeated itself at every dojo I trained at – Cornell, San Francisco, and even the Kodokan. Eventually my frustration reached a breaking point. I considered quitting Judo many times. (The only reason I didn’t is because thinking about quitting always gave me a visceral sinking feeling that I didn’t know how to deal with.)
I would tell people that I loved Judo, and I thought it was the case. But deep down, it was a lie. I didn’t care about Judo, or even enjoy it. I just wanted to skip to the end — being able to throw other guys and feel like a badass.
My technique may have been good, but the mental and emotional aspects of my Judo were a complete mess.
Recently, a strange mental switch happened in me (a humiliating loss in my first shiai probably had something to do with it).
At first, my response to the shiai was to double down on technique — where was I making mistakes? What could I fix / improve? Where could I focus to get the “biggest bang for the buck”?
But at the same time, due to a combination of circumstantial reasons, it also started to became a very real possibility to me that I might have to stop doing Judo soon (reasons had nothing to do with Judo itself or my frustrations with it). That I might never get a chance to stay and train towards a black belt. I also got a wrist injury, which further dimmed my prospects.
I started to let go of my end goal of a black belt. I had long ago accepted that I didn’t have any innate talent for the art, but now I even started to give up on the hope of making progress. I started to accept that maybe the only thing I would ever get out of Judo was whatever I could learn in that day’s class. Maybe “today’s training” was all my Judo journey would ever amount to.
I’ll be honest, at first it was very demotivating. I started to show up less consistently, and was half-assed during practice. There was no longer any fire burning in me. I had mentally resigned.
The strange thing is that only after I let go of the pressure to improve, did I start to find any genuine enjoyment in Judo in the first place.
Showing up to class and standing on the sidelines due to my wrist injury, all I could was to watch, do some footwork drills by myself, and practice the ippon seoi nage after hours (it’s the only technique that doesn’t use my right wrist).
This experience at first felt disempowering, but eventually… freeing.
Being a bystander, watching my classmates, young and old and from all walks of life, working hard together and trying to better themselves, fumbling with techniques and trying different things, gave me a chance to absorb Judo in its most natural and playful state.
Where previously I would resent randori due to all the negative feelings it evoked in me (I only ever did randori because I saw it as bitter medicine that would make me strong), for the first time, I found myself saying, “I want to do randori so bad, look at all the fun they’re having.“
Yesterday, I finally couldn’t hold it any longer. My wrist felt sligthly healed, so I decided to try randori again. To my surprise, for the first time, I actually had fun — and ended up executing more throws than I ever did before! (I also slightly aggravated my wrist injury again… time to step back! xD)
It was an unreal experience, my first ever — while previously I’d literally have to remind myself to smile during randori (for real), this time I was doing it automatically.
Being present in the moment allowed me to be “sharper,” less defensive, and more adventurous. For the first time I was doing randori for its actual purpose — to practice applying the throws you learned, and not to throw others using what you’ve learned.
This is a very important distinction:
Throwing the opponent is a by-product of trying to apply a throw the way you learned it. It is not the goal of randori in itself.
When I was doing Judo with a goal in mind (I want to progress, I want to get strong, I want to get this, I want to get that, etc) — I was playing a finite game, with a finite time horizon. I couldn’t wait for this game to end, so that I could TAKE what I could and walk away. I was forcing my mind and body to improve and show me progress on a consistent basis.
But when I did Judo for fun, I was playing an infinite game — one that I wouldn’t mind play forever, and the goal was not to take, but to GIVE myself the gift of enjoyment.
Of course, I’m not fully there yet, but I’m on that path.
Previously, when I saw 70 and 80 year olds still doing Judo, I used to wonder why. Don’t you get injured? Why would you be doing this to yourself? Now, I’m starting to see why.
Until the next revelation!
