Living on the Edge

Hello again from Savannah! It’s been an interesting month. Typically, in all of my newsletters, I wax poetic about the new places I’ve gone, the beauty I’ve witnessed, the stillness I’ve felt. This month, my experience has been quite different. Indeed, one thing has dominated this month (and me) — Brazilian jiu jitsu.

For those of you who don’t know, Brazilian jiu jitsu is one of the three martial arts that makes up the foundation of modern self-defense. Its primary focus is on grappling, learning all the ways to utilize holds, angles, frames, and physics to completely subdue your opponent. It’s been humbling. In every class, I learn all the ways that someone can fold me into a pretzel, and how utterly helpless I am against someone who knows what they’re doing. For the past four weeks I’ve put my body through the wringer. I’ve been choked, slammed, armbarred, kneebarred, ankle locked. Before every class, my mind cooks up a multitude of reasons not to go. “Your rib is still sore.” “It’s raining too hard.” “Missing one class won’t hurt.” And yet I still go in spite of it all. Because discomfort is the sign that you’re at the edge of your capacity. And the edge of comfort is where growth occurs.

It all started one night at the Ranger Station two summers ago. It was my last day of the season. We had just shut down the fire lookout, and I was sitting by the crackling fire, drinking cold beers with the fire crew. The night was going as they usually do. We were all piled onto the long split-log benches, laughing about the latest shenanigans, poking fun at each other, building camaraderie. As the embers burned down and the cooler emptied, someone had a bright idea. “We should have a wrestling tournament.” The group was quickly split into two camps — those who’d drunk enough to think it was a brilliant idea, and those who hadn’t. I was squarely in the first group.

With misplaced enthusiasm, I got up and was challenged by one of the new guys on the crew. He was wiry, with a mullet, and a whole head shorter than me. We faced each other on the grass as the fire crew was hooting and hollering. I sized him up as he stood across from me, confident in my chances of pinning him. Then I pounced. I was on the ground before I knew what happened. The new guy worked his way to my back and then had his arm locked tightly against my throat. There was nothing I could do. Too drunk to know I was beaten, I flopped around for what felt like an eternity, trying to find any leverage I could against his rear naked choke. But it was hopeless. As everything around me started to fade, I tapped out and limped back to the bench, with a bruised rib and wounded pride.

I carried that moment with me as I left the mountains for civilization, and have held it ever since. It was the first time since I did wrestling in middle school that I’d been in any kind of physical conflict. I’ve never been in a fight before, and never plan to be. But that night I realized that if push ever did come to shove, I’d be pretty useless in a fight. I’d have no idea where to even start if it came to defending myself. And so that seed took root within me as the months passed, and I knew it was time to learn self-defense.

The jiu jitsu studio is a simple red square room with grey and black mats lining the floor. There are dusty old trophies at the front of the room and some sad potted plants sitting in the windowsill. Indoor plants are supposed to be great for air quality, but it would take an entire forest to clear out the potent smell of stale sweat mixed with feet. I go to classes four times a week. The first half of class is dedicated to learning and drilling a new technique. The second half is for rolling, the jiu jitsu word for sparring. There are usually six to eight people in each class. Some have been practicing jiu jitsu for years; others for months. I’m by far the least experienced.

My first class was a shock to the system, to say the least. After fumbling through the drills at the start of class, it was time to roll. We all paired off and waited for the three-minute timer to start. We’d roll with our partner until the timer ended, have a thirty-second rest, and then pair up with a different person. I had no idea what I was doing. I didn’t even know the rules, aside from knowing I shouldn’t punch, kick, or bite. It felt like jumping into the deep end without knowing how to swim. Once the timer started, I only had one word ricocheting within me — SURVIVE.

I learned several things that day. First, I’m slippery. I spent my entire childhood fighting off my older brother when he would pounce, and have apparently maintained that skill into adulthood. It’s a great skill to have in the real world, but the problem is I was there to grapple, and I wouldn’t learn anything if I just ran around in circles for three minutes. Second, my body is not a fan of being thrown to the ground. My rolling partners were actually taking it easy on me — giving me tips, telling me what not to do. But the fact is I kept getting taken down to the mat hard and then summarily contorted into a new shape and submitted. Once I tapped, it was time to get up and do it again and again until the timer went off. Then, after a thirty-second break, do it again with someone new. And then again with someone else. I’m pretty sure it’s the most stress I’ve ever submitted my body to. Walking across America takes endurance, but the mechanics of it are simple and easy. Jiu jitsu is a different beast. Finally, I realized how much there still is to experience in this life. This was my first taste ever of combat sports, and as I lay crumpled up in those contorted positions, an entire world of things to learn, practice, and experience opened up before me. And when the final timer went off, I knew that I wanted to explore this world. I left drenched in sweat and with my head held high.

I couldn’t hold anything up two hours later. I’d also opened up a whole new world of pain. There were the acute injuries — a windpipe that got compressed a little too hard, an overexerted forearm that could no longer grip, a rib that got battered — but what was worse was the general, systemic pain I felt throughout my entire body. I had been feeling alright as I walked out of class, but as the adrenaline and cortisol began to wear off, I felt like I’d literally been hit by a truck. After taking a shower, I crawled into bed and didn’t move for the rest of the day.

The next day was barely any better. I had to peel myself out of bed, limping around slowly like I was geriatric. Still, it was a full rest day and by the end of it I was feeling slightly more functional. Then class again on Friday and I felt like I’d been hit by an even bigger truck. Cue two weeks of survival. Exploring Savannah faded from my mind. All I could think about was recovering enough to make it to the next class feeling good enough to do it all over again. There were doubts in my mind. Excuses abounded. “I haven’t recovered enough.” “My arm still hurts too much.” “I don’t want to get injured.” But I knew that this is what I wanted, and the only way to improve was by putting in more reps.

Class stayed brutal. For those first two weeks, I was barely functional after each session. It was hard to do anything else for the rest of the day. Hard to walk. Hard to write. Hard to move. But with each class, I picked up something new, and slowly began climbing my way back out of oblivion. Don’t give him your back. Keep your arms and legs in tight. Close the space between you. Notice your balance. The lessons slowly accumulated until, one sunny Wednesday, I walked out of class in suspense. There was no pain beyond general soreness. I mentally checked my arms, my ribs, my neck, my back. Nothing was shouting back at me. I cautiously observed myself for the rest of the day, jubilation slowly rising that I could do jiu jitsu and still live my life.

And that’s what I’ve been doing since then. Now, jiu jitsu is less about survival and more about skill acquisition. I’m beginning to see the structure of it all, beginning to grapple with the game itself. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still getting submitted. I’m still objectively terrible. But I’m getting submitted less. I’m rolling smarter. I’m less afraid of injury, although the threat still looms in my mind. And although the excuses still arise, I don’t think about them anymore. What they’re really telling me is that I’m still uncomfortable, that my ego wants to retreat somewhere safe. But I keep going. Because discomfort is good. Discomfort tells you that you’re on the edge of growth. And if you live there long enough, who knows what you’ll grow into.

_{Ratings: [5* - All Time Favorite] [5 - Will read again in 5 years] [4 - Will read again in 10 years] [3 - Good story or prose, but won’t read again] [2 - Has a redeeming quality, but not good overall] [1 - Irredeemable]}

I’ve discovered some more songs to share with you this month. Homewrecker by Sombr is way catchier than it should be. Filled with Beach Boy harmonies and his trademark yearning, this song transports me to sunny summer days, dancing around with abandon. Funeral by Dermot Kennedy is a lush pop ballad full of an intriguing mix of melancholy and hope. It’s the first song I’ve heard by Dermot, and I like it. The final song is by one of my favorite artists that no one has heard of. I’ve loved just about every song that thebandfriday has released, and this one is no different. Wake Up is heavy on the synth and rich on the ears. Give it a listen and let me know what you think!

Thanks for making it to the end of this newsletter! It was fun for me to put my experiences of being humbled so regularly this month into writing. I hope you enjoyed it as well. Have a great March, and stay uncomfortable!

Love always,

Ben