Hobbyist. I started a social media post with this word recently and then deleted it. I know sometimes it could be useful to make a distinction, but sometimes it carries a negative connotation (maybe only in my head). Hobbyist, as in NOT a competitor, not a real “jiu-jitsu person.” When I started jiu-jitsu, I certainly didn’t know that there was this articulated division. I only wanted to learn this weird, exhausting human puzzle game. Everyone was bigger, I wasn’t any good at it, and it didn’t make any difference. Life was good.

“Black belt problems.“

As you get into brown and black belt I think there are more expectations from others – and maybe, just maybe, you place more of them on yourself. You can’t legitimately answer everything with, ” I don’t know, man, I’m just here to learn,” anymore. You’re teaching more at that level, which always adds a new layer of breaking down and building up that can be disorienting. While anticipating students’ possible needs or expectations, you inadvertently create your own. I know some things, but do I know enough? – that arbitrary amount that can generate overconfidence in some and imposter syndrome in others. My heart says, “ask me anything!” My head says, “No, please don’t?”

With this new awareness of both the teaching and learning side of things, comes a crisis in confidence. I went from purple belt me generally thinking I would subvert expectations and be better than people assumed I was to brown belt me apologizing and making excuses every roll for how badly I thought I had done. We were just back after the pandemic hiatus and I had since inherited the morning class. I assumed everyone would be as disappointed by this change as I was overwhelmed. I’m not Geoff. (I’m the opposite, in some obvious ways.) I can’t do this. I would beat myself up over every detail I missed, every sweep that went wrong. No matter that they’re twice my size – I failed. I’m no good. Why would anyone listen to me if I can’t make the material I teach work in my game?

Somehow, in the upper levels, not knowing things or getting swept or submitted might take on a different cast even though we strive to just play, have no ego, don’t try to win practice. Logically, I won’t control my partners 100% of time (even if this were a choice, that’s the wrong way to teach) and I know I don’t know everything — and yet… expectations abound! You get asked more questions, which emphasizes in a public or frequent way that previously private understanding that you don’t know it all. Logic goes out the window and it feels like some of that hard-earned proof that you deserve to teach, to wear that belt, or be in the room is irreparably chipped away.

The issues around being a smaller woman in a male-dominated sport only become more pronounced at higher levels. We’re often working twice as hard for the same respect. We don’t get taken seriously. You’re going to teach men? To fight? To “be men?” We must just be doing this for self-defense. We’re up against bigger size differences and more negative attitudes that aren’t applied to men – fighting isn’t feminine, muscles aren’t feminine, we won’t stick with it, we aren’t supposed to show aggression. All that time away from your family – how dare! 

On the practical side, I worry the guys won’t get a good workout because they have the option to throw me around if they forget what they’ve learned. A lot of techniques won’t work (or isn’t worth the risk to a neck or joint) on bigger people who know my game and it feels like just lazy bullshit and bad excuses to ask them if that would work on a bigger person, though I know it’s a valid point. Some guys may even try harder to get a submission on a smaller, higher ranked woman. Or it feels that way sometimes!

When you don’t have enough reasons to doubt yourself, social media will deliver!

During the pandemic, with lots of time on my hands and the spectre of a recurring role as teaching looming, I started listening to more jiu-jitsu “content” online. It was a bit of a bummer to hear most of the emphasis of the online material be on competition and a distinction made between those people and whatever it is I think I’m doing. I heard more terminology and opinions in a few months than I had my entire 8 or so years training: Competition blue belts are hobbyist purple belts, and so on. Hobbyst. Less than. When people online say “jiu-jitsu community” it referred mostly to the competition crowd. My experience is somehow less valuable because I haven’t won any medals? I have never believed that, but, what if–. After that, I think I started mentally putting myself in a category separate from “real jiu-jitsu players.” I thought, “Am I being dishonest by not doing so?” It was never really even a question before. I had always just trained. 

I’ve always been persistent and detail-oriented, generally unconcerned about others’ perceptions as long as I’m focused on my obsession of the moment. Especially with our emphasis on not having an ego in jiu-jitsu, suddenly caring about what a bunch of people I’ve never met might think of me was jarring. Why am I comparing myself to others or letting someone put me in their made up category? I didn’t start it because I was good at it and I certainly don’t keep showing up because I think I’m good at it. I love it. Or as my instructor says, “we’re mammals, we need play.” It keeps me balanced mentally and physically. It reminds me how to breathe. Every roll or class, we learn that we can overcome, test our limits, fail – and more importantly – try again. Rolling with different body types and styles of game each week keeps me constantly learning, forever a student. I’m with a like-minded bunch who takes care of each other so we can keep doing this long-term. And did I mention IT’S FUN!

I know what I’m doing. I do belong here. I’ll say it even on days when it feels like a lie. 

I train jiu-jitsu.