There was a brown belt I used to roll with. Honestly, he was a bit chaotic. Full of testosterone, full of something else too—a wounded boy trying to assert himself through bravado. I could see it clearly, probably because I’ve done my own work. His jesting and mocking hit something raw in me, and I acted. I took him down—clean, decisive.

He didn’t expect it. But his ego didn’t take it well either.

And that’s when it happened. He locked my knee. No warning. No space to tap. It wasn’t technique. It was punishment. I’d hurt his ego, and he hurt my body. I limped for days. I couldn’t walk my son to school the next morning.

That was the moment I knew:
This isn’t just a sport. And it’s not safe for me anymore.

The truth is, I had known for a while. Not consciously, maybe. But somewhere in me, I felt the misalignment.

When my coach once hurt my wrist, it had already planted the seed. It wasn’t malicious—it just reminded me that my body isn’t built to absorb this kind of strain. I even found out I had arthritis. But I strapped on a wrist guard and kept going.

Why? Because Jiu-Jitsu gave me something I didn’t have anywhere else at the time: structure. Connection. A place to show up and be seen, even if it was through discomfort.

And that’s part of the story that matters most:

I wasn’t there to conquer. I was there because I was lonely.

It’s taken me years to realise how often I’ve stayed too long in places that didn’t fit, just because they were all I had. When you’re raised to suppress your needs, override your instincts, and try harder no matter what—it becomes hard to know when to stop.

But life has a way of stopping you.
And my knee injury became that moment of stillness.
Of reflection.
Of letting go.

When I returned the second time, I knew it immediately:
It’s not fun.
It’s not healing.
It’s not me.

And I didn’t need to shame myself for not seeing it sooner.
Because for someone like me, sometimes it takes staying until the pain becomes undeniable to learn how to finally listen to myself.

So, this isn’t a post about quitting.
It’s a post about choosing.

I chose myself.
My body.
My time.
My joy.

And I’ll never again prove my worth by enduring things that hurt me.

That’s what Jiu-Jitsu taught me.

And that’s the day I left the mat. To the version of me who stayed too long—
You weren’t weak. You were loyal.
You didn’t miss the signs. You overrode them for connection, because that’s how you survived.

I see now that you didn’t need to win at Jiu-Jitsu.
You needed to feel seen. Safe. Respected.
And when it stopped offering that, you didn’t fail by walking away—
You finally succeeded in listening to the part of you that had never been listened to before.

To anyone reading this who’s in something that no longer fits—
a relationship, a routine, a role you’ve outgrown—
you’re allowed to stop trying.
You’re allowed to choose peace over proving.
You’re allowed to say,

“This isn’t for me,”
without needing a better reason than that.

Sometimes the bravest thing isn’t holding on.
It’s letting go with grace.

And if you need someone to say it’s okay—
Here it is.
It’s okay to walk away.