Darren's blog

There’s a certain kind of silence in wrestling—the kind that fills your ears when you’re pinned beneath someone’s weight, gasping for air, wondering how things went wrong so fast.  

I used to live for that silence. The grind of sparring, the thrill of competition, the way my body moved on instinct. But now? Now I’m stuck between who I was and who I’ve become. Between the wrestler/fighter who once dominated rounds and the version of me now—older, heavier, exhausted by life outside the mat.

The question follows me like a shadow: "Do I keep fighting for this? Or do I walk away before it breaks me completely?"

I felt like I'm slowly drifting away.

Wrestling was never just a hobby for me. It was where I felt strong. In control. But then work swallowed my time, my energy faded, and the weight piled on. Missed practices turned into weeks, then months. The mat felt like a distant memory, and the version of me that used to thrive there seemed like a stranger.  

I told myself I’d come back. "Soon." But "soon" never came.  

The match that haunts me. The last time I competed, I was winning.  

At least, in the beginning. My shots were sharp, my sprawls tight. I took the first two rounds with ease, feeding off that old fire. Then, suddenly-nothing. My lungs burned. My arms turned to lead. My opponent locked in a choke, and as the world blurred at the edges, I didn’t just feel him squeezing the air from me ; I felt time itself pressing down.  

"What’s happening to me?"

I used to fight through this. Used to "thrive" in it. But that night, I didn’t scramble. Didn’t rage. I just… let it happen. And when the ref raised his hand, the worst part wasn’t losing. It was realizing I didn’t even recognize myself anymore.  

But here’s the cruel trick: even now, when I watch others wrestle, my heart pounds like it’s trying to escape my chest. My muscles twitch with phantom movements, replaying takedowns I haven’t hit in years. The sparks that won't die. The hunger is still there ; buried under doubt, but "there".  

So why can’t I answer its call?  

Lastly, its about the choice I'm scared to make. Quitting would be the easy way out. No more shame in being slower, softer. No more guilt when I skip the gym. But walking away feels like surrendering a piece of my soul.  

Coming back? That’s harder. It means facing how far I’ve fallen. It means gasping through drills I used to own. It means admitting I might never be who I was, but maybe, just maybe, I could be something new.  

Speaking about a glimmer of hope. Maybe the first step back isn’t a match. It’s just showing up to a match again. One takedown. One sprawl. One moment where the fire flickers back to life. Wrestling taught me resilience, and this? This is just another hold to escape.  

I may not be the wrestler I once was, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a wrestler at all.

I don’t have all the answers yet. But if you’ve ever stood at this crossroads, if you’ve ever felt the mat call to you while your body or life screamed "no"—how did you choose?