There was a time when I needed to fight.
Not in a literal way, though I did that too — jiu-jitsu, wrestling, throwing my weight around on the mats like I had something to prove. But the fight I’m talking about is older, deeper, more primal.

It was the fight to belong.
To be respected.
To feel something that resembled connection — even if it came through tension, pain, or pressure.

Back then, I mistook intensity for intimacy.
I mistook being feared for being seen.
I mistook survival for strength.

Now I can see it clearly: I was trying to build a tribe out of adrenaline.
I was using physical battle to meet emotional needs — touch, presence, eye contact, affirmation.
But what I got instead was bruises, burnout, and a reminder that even in the gym or the dojo, I still felt alone when I left.

I thought I missed the sport.
But I don’t. Not really.
I miss the sense of brotherhood I thought I had.
I miss the aliveness that came from pushing my body.
I miss the brief moments of connection — the hand slap, the bump, the exhale at the end of a hard round.

But when I’m honest, those moments were fleeting. And the cost to my nervous system, my body, and my peace wasn’t worth it.

The truth is, I don’t need to fight anymore.

I know how to defend myself. I know I’m not helpless. I’ve faced harder things than being choked out on a mat. I’ve been emotionally abandoned and stayed standing. I’ve rebuilt myself from the ground up.

And now?
I want something softer.
Not weaker — softer.
More fluid. More alive.

Dancing is calling me.
Not to master it, not to prove anything — but to move, to flow, to laugh, to connect.
I don’t feel the same ego spike in dance that I did on the mats. I don’t need to dominate the room. I just want to be in it — with other people who are present, who want joy more than victory.

Running is calling me too.
Early mornings, quiet strides, no one to beat. Just my breath and the sunrise.

And connection is forming.
Through my dog walks. Through the gym. Through a man who said “you’re agile” while we stretched beside each other. Through counselling training, where I’ll spend two years in a room with people who speak the language of emotion, not combat.

I’m building a life that doesn’t run on chaos anymore.

There’s still a part of me that loves the fire.
But now I know how to light it in ways that don’t scorch me.

I don’t need to fight anymore.
I just need to move.
To breathe.
To be met — gently.

And that… is more than enough.