When I signed up for my first tournament as a white belt, I had no clue what I was getting into. I wasn’t naturally competitive, I didn’t have a wrestling background, and I definitely didn’t thrive under pressure. I just wanted to see where I stood. To test myself a little, even if I didn’t feel ready. Honestly, I never really did feel ready. Not at white belt, not at blue, not even at purple. But I showed up anyway. Looking back, I’m so glad I did. Competing pushed my growth in a way regular class never could.
At the time, the local tournament scene wasn’t packed with options. It was usually Portland or Salem, and sometimes I’d drive nearly an hour just to compete. Most of my training partners didn’t compete, so I often went solo(with my wife). I'd warm up awkwardly in a corner of some high school gym, doing solo drills in whatever space I could find. The nerves were real. But over time, I realized that just stepping on the mat and facing that fear was a win in itself. I didn’t walk into class the next week magically better, but I was more focused. I started training with more purpose, more clarity.
Each match, win or lose, gave me feedback I couldn't get any other way. I saw exactly what wasn’t working. And when I wasn’t competing, I was watching, studying higher belts, absorbing what good Jiu-Jitsu looked like when it was dialed in and tested. That alone helped me level up faster than I would’ve by just rolling with the same people every night.
Over the years, I hit a few more tournaments. I traveled up to Seattle and even made it down to L.A. for some bigger events. I was never a standout. I didn’t rack up gold medals or clear out brackets. But every match gave me something, lessons in composure, timing, resilience. I learned how to manage adrenaline dumps, how to keep breathing in bad spots, and how to shake off a loss without letting it crush me.
Competition gave me perspective. It forced me to look at my game under pressure and see what actually held up. It exposed bad habits and showed me where I was avoiding growth. In regular training, you can hide. You can cruise. But in a match against someone you’ve never rolled with, you have no choice but to stay sharp, honest, and fully present.
Some of my best memories from those years have nothing to do with the matches themselves. They’re the car rides with teammates. The late-night meals after long days at tournaments. The moments spent warming up together, hyping each other up while quietly battling our own nerves. Competing with friends made it more than just an individual pursuit, it became something we shared. We helped each other through the wins and the losses and showed up better the next time around.
Later on, I found myself coaching at the occasional event. I started cornering teammates, giving those last-minute pep talks before their first match. I saw the same nerves in them that I used to feel. I knew what it meant to doubt yourself before you ever step on the mat. And helping someone get through that, watching them walk off proud regardless of the result, that’s just as rewarding as competing, if not more.
If you’re unsure about signing up, let me tell you this, you don’t have to feel 100% ready. You don’t need to be the best person in the room or the most confident. You just need to go for it. You’ll learn more in one match than you might in months of regular training. Even if you lose, you gain something. A clearer view of your game. A valuable experience. And maybe a little more fire to come back better.
So yeah, feel the nerves. Sign up. Step on the mat even if you’re shaking. Because one day, you’ll look back and realize that every match, every long drive, every awkward warm-up was part of something that made you not just a better grappler—but a better teammate, a better coach, and maybe even a better version of yourself
