That Match in Lisbon
That match in Lisbon still feels like a strange dream that decided to become real.
I walked onto the mat at the 2025 IBJJF European Championship as a four stripe white belt, nervous in the quiet, electrical way that only a big tournament can produce. Not the jitters you get at a local open mat, but the kind that makes your hearing go fuzzy and your thoughts very sharp. I had a torn calf, so my whole game plan was already duct taped together. I was not supposed to wrestle. I was not supposed to shoot. I was supposed to survive long enough to find a safe path to the ground.
And then, of course, I went straight into a takedown.
Somewhere in the scramble, I overhooked and my opponent yanked my arm out. I did not feel pain. Not even a hint. Just a strange looseness, like a door that suddenly had no hinge. Adrenaline is a very dishonest chemical. It tells you that everything is fine while quietly letting important structures in your body fall apart.
We hit the mat. I settled. Pressure, position, breath. All the simple boring things that win matches. The kind of things you only trust when you are scared.
I worked my way in and finished with an Ezekiel choke. It was clean. One of those moments where the world shrinks down to just forearms and a neck and the feeling of someone tapping.
Gold.
I stood there smiling, shaking hands, nodding to the ref, and walking to the podium. That was when the pain showed up like it had just missed its flight and finally arrived. Two tears in the rotator cuff. The bill for the miracle came due.
But here is the part that still hits me.
I went into that match scared. Not fake Instagram fearless. Real scared. I was injured. I was older. I was a white belt on a big stage. My brain had a long list of reasons why this was a bad idea.
And I won anyway.
A few months later, I got my blue belt promotion. You do not really become a new belt when you get tied into it. You become it when something costs you and you keep going.
That gold medal was the moment I earned it.
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