This week made me reflect deeply on the current culture of our sport. The way media, organizations, and even people within Jiu Jitsu define success sometimes makes me feel like I have always been practicing something different from what they call Jiu Jitsu.
It brought me back to a simple question. Why?
Why do I train? Why do I still come back every day? Why do I care so much about every single person in the room?
And it also made me think about the idea of a champion. What does that really mean? Why do people care so much about a label?
I started Jiu Jitsu in a very different time. Competitions were rare. Maybe two or three a year. Back then, what mattered most to us was becoming truly good at Jiu Jitsu and being able to protect ourselves in the streets of Manaus. I loved being there with my friends, putting on the gi, sweating together, and coming back the next day to do it all over again.
When I won my first state title at 10 years old, I was excited, but something strange happened. People who had never paid attention to me suddenly became interested in me. It felt like Alexandre, or Xandinho, disappeared, and now there was only "the champion." Even at that age, something about that did not feel right.
As time passed and I kept winning, I realized something important. I cared more about getting good grades in school, doing more push ups in PE, and improving as a person than I did about trying to win again. I loved playing street soccer even though I was terrible at it, but I appreciated the grit and resilience it brought out of me. I did not enjoy standing in formation during military exercises, but I appreciated the discipline and endurance it built inside me.
That is when I began to understand something deeper. The practice had already given me much more than medals ever could. It made me different.
I was never chasing the metal around the neck. I was chasing the craft.
Even after moving to America, I never truly saw myself as simply a fighter or athlete. I saw myself as a martial artist. A professor. A Sensei. Someone trying to sharpen the tool every single day of life.
Of course winning brought joy, happiness, and accomplishment. But winning also carries a burden. Expectations. Judgment. Pressure. And I believe the philosophy and values I followed helped me regulate all of it.
Jiu Jitsu helped me handle greatness, and it helped me survive depression. It helped me heal emotional wounds and physical injuries. Not because I was a champion, but because I never attached my self worth to things outside of my control.
I could not control who liked me. I could not control if I would become a champion. But I could control who I became through the process.
When I won, I checked myself. When I lost, I gathered information. And more importantly, I paid attention to who I was during those moments and who remained honest and true around me.
I have lost fights. I have lost students. I have lost friends.
But through all of it, one thing has remained clear to me.
Who we are is built in the small moments. The quiet moments. The moments of struggle. The moments of joy and pain. Not in the spotlight. Not in the gold around our neck.
The medal shines for a moment.
Character remains long after the applause disappears.
And maybe that is what matters most.
Not becoming a champion.
But becoming someone worthy of the journey.