I have not written much the past two years, a post on Facebook here or there but nothing solid.
When you step onto the mats, you usually know who your opponent is. They’re wearing a gi, they’re sweating, and they’re trying to punch you, kick you, throw you , sweep you or submit you. But when the opponent is a cellular glitch—a diagnosis that doesn't respect the referee or the tap-out—the rules of engagement change.
Training in Goju-ryu Karate and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu (BJJ) isn’t just about learning how to fight others; it’s about learning how to manage your own internal chaos. Here is how the "Hard-Soft" way and the "Gentle Art" provide the ultimate blueprint for me to fight against my cancer.
1. Goju-ryu: The Power of the Breath
Goju-ryu translates to the "Hard-Soft" style. In the middle of chemotherapy, radiation or recovery, your life becomes a constant oscillation between these two states.
Sanchin (The Hard): The foundational kata of Goju-ryu, Sanchin, focuses on rootedness and tension. When cancer makes you feel like you’re drifting, the isometric discipline of Goju-ryu reminds you that you are still the master of your physical frame.
Tensho (The Soft): Cancer is a marathon of needles, scans, and waiting rooms. If you stay "hard" all the time, you break. The flowing, circular movements of Tensho teach you to yield to the things you cannot control, preserving your energy for the battles that actually matter.
The Lesson: Strength isn't just about breaking boards; it's about the internal structural integrity that keeps you standing when the wind blows the hardest.
2. BJJ: Finding Comfort in the Crush
If Goju-ryu is the fortress, BJJ is the survival guide. There is no better metaphor for a cancer journey than being stuck in a "high-pressure" position—like a heavy brown belt’s "knee-on-belly."
Don't Panic: In BJJ, the moment you panic is the moment you lose your air. Cancer tries to suffocate your hope. By practicing how to breathe while someone is trying to flatten you, you develop a "battle-calm" that translates directly to the MRI tube, the radiation machine or the infusion chair.
The Micro-Transition: You don’t escape a bad position in one move. You move your hip an inch. You create a frame. You find a pocket of air. In recovery, some days are just about moving that "one inch"—getting out of bed, finishing a meal, or taking a short walk.
3. The Community (The Dojo Family)
Cancer is isolating, but martial arts are communal. Whether it’s your sensei checking in on your kata progress or your rolling partners saving a spot for you on the mats "when you’re ready," the dojo provides a destination.
It reminds you that you are a martial artist who happens to have cancer, not a "cancer patient" who used to do martial arts. That shift in identity is the most powerful technique in your arsenal.
There will be days when the "Hard" style is too much, and your body demands the "Soft." There will be days when you have to "tap out" to a round of fatigue. That isn't a defeat; it's technical recovery.
In Goju-ryu and BJJ, we learn that the belt doesn't just hold our pants up—it represents the sweat, the blood, and the refusal to quit. Cancer might be a world-class opponent, but it hasn't spent years learning how to breathe through the squeeze.
The Daily Spar: How Goju-ryu, BJJ, and a Powerhouse Corner Got Me Through Radiation
Radiation therapy isn't just a medical procedure; it’s a grueling, invisible sparring match. When the doctors handled the science of my recovery, I realized I needed the dojo to handle my spirit.
I made a choice: I trained every single day through my treatments. It wasn't about being a "tough guy"—it was about maintaining my identity. In the clinic, I was a patient. On the mats, I was a practitioner. That distinction saved my life.
The Power of the Daily Grind
The clinic can feel like a place where you lose your agency, but the mats were where I took it back. By committing to class every day, I used Goju-ryu’s discipline and BJJ’s strategic problem-solving to navigate the fatigue. I treated every session as "active recovery," replacing the narrative of sickness with a refusal to tap out. Some days the "Hard" style was impossible, so I leaned into the "Soft," but I never stayed off the mats.
The Corner: My Wife’s Role in the Fight
Every world-class fighter has a "corner"—the person who cleans the cuts, provides the strategy, and pushes them back out when the bell rings. My wife was my corner, my coach, and my backbone.
On the days when the radiation fatigue felt like a heavy-weight's "knee-on-belly," she was the one tightening my belt and pushing me out the door. Her encouragement wasn't just a suggestion; it was a call to arms. She refused to let me succumb to the couch, knowing that my best defense was to stay active. She didn’t just support my fight; she coached me through it, ensuring I stayed active and kept my eyes on the next round. The real MVP of my consistency wasn't a technique or a kata; it was my wife. She was the relentless force that pushed me to keep fighting when the tank was empty, proving that while I may be the one on the mats, we were fighting as a team.
The Infinite Round: Why I’m Still Fighting
I haven’t been given the "all clear." There has been no victory parade, and no doctor has used the word "remission" yet. In martial arts terms, the round hasn't ended. I am still under the pressure; I am still fighting for every inch of mat space.
But if Goju-ryu and BJJ have taught me anything, it’s that you don’t wait for the end of the fight to find your strength. You find it in the middle of the struggle.
I continue to train every day because the dojo is where I remind myself that I am more than a diagnosis. With my wife still firmly in my corner—ready to tighten my belt and push me back out for the next round—I realize that "winning" isn't just about a final medical report. Winning is the act of showing up. Winning is the refusal to let the cancer dictate the pace of my life.
The battle continues. The pressure is still there. But as long as I have breath for Sanchin and the will to keep rolling, I’m not going anywhere.
The round isn't over. We keep fighting.
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