There’s a strange idea out there about training—that it’s one long, continuous journey. Like someone starts in somewhere their early twenties, trains for a decade or two, and later tells their grandkids about it like it’s a distant, dusty tale. But in reality, life gets busy most often than not, so most of the people I know train periodically, some returning in a few months, some in a few years. Unless they’re on the competition track or coaching professionally, but otherwise training tends to happen in waves, not an unbroken, linear line.
For some, the gaps are intentional—just a change in life priorities. No hard feelings. But for others, life pulled them away by force, responsibilities piled up, making ends meet got harder. There was no time, no energy to invest in, and no space left for training. For them it wasn’t a choice; it felt like something was ripped away. One training buddy told me he was coming back after twenty years and he wasn’t just rusty—he was angry. Bitter, even. He felt robbed of the time he’d lost in boxing and judo. He wanted to feel strong again, but more than that, he wanted to let go of the rage that had calcified over the years. That’s a lot of resentment to carry. He asked if Jiu-Jitsu could help him release the anger and become softer and flexible. The answer is yes—but not in the calm, meditative way one might expects.
Training in a Two-Way Street
Every close-combat martial art, and especially Jiu-Jitsu, will redefine you. These arts are painful, chaotic, and intrusive—just like life itself. They’re not ideas to ponder. You feel them. One day someone half your size can tie you in knots. Then you run out of breath faster than you’d like to admit. Then you go in full of fire and come out all washed wondering what just happened to you. Jiu-Jitsu still holds a lot of its street roots, and it shows. It’s raw and real—but still with a safety net, thanks to trainers and the social responsibility that most training buddies carry. That environment matters. It’s what makes it a place to fall apart and rebuild.
The way it can transform resentment is not by letting it all out. But getting a new perspective on your emotions. Because close combat is a two-way street—what you give, you get. If you go in too hard, you’ll leave the mat in pain or out of training partners. Also when others help you and genuinely happy for your progress, it’s nearly impossible to stay angry. You’re soaking in killing range in one minute and cry of gratitude in the next. And that, right there, is the first taste of humility.
Recovery Isn’t Linear, But It Is Possible
Another training buddy returned after surviving a rough childhood and an abusive relationship. They weren’t just trying to get fit or learn to fight—they were looking for freedom. That hit close to home. When I came back after a long break, I didn’t even know what I was trying to fix. I just had this blurry, hardly describable goal—something like “getting the fear out of the blood.” That’s the best way I can describe it. And it turns out, that’s not unique. A lot of us show up like that. A little broken. A little guarded. But curious enough to do.
It feels a long time now, but going back was the best decision of my life. It didn’t even matter that I left several clubs along the way. What mattered was that I started to understand what support is good for me, and started to take responsibility for myself—choosing clubs and drills and overall, building my own game. Training won’t promise to erase trauma, but it gives you back the pen to write your own story about it. It lets you feel things again—trust, pride, frustration, even joy—without drowning in them. You start to reclaim your body, your reactions, your confidence. Piece by piece, round by round.
The Way Back is Forward
Returning to martial arts after a long break is about discovering what’s still possible. It’s definitely not picking up where you left off, your world have changed likely both inside and outside. It likely won’t fix your past, but it will give you a space to meet it differently. Whether you come in angry or afraid, bitter or broken, the mat meets you where you are—and then demands that you grow. And maybe, just maybe, you find a kind of peace in being tested and seen and supported—all at once, like myself. So if you’re reading this, wondering if you should come back—do it. The mat is there, and we get you. We’ve been there. And we’re rooting for you.
