A Room Full of Murder (or Love?)

When I hit 34, a question hit me back: What do I want my kids to remember me for? That existential gut-punch led me to pursue a Master’s in Business and Data Analytics, start a marketing company, and dabble in video projects—one of which involved filming MMA fighters for a client.

Martial arts have always had me in a chokehold of fascination. I started Kenpo karate at age five, became a martial arts movie fanatic, and even worked for Steven Seagal, rubbing elbows with flying kicks on set. Naturally, I thought: Why not merge my passions for martial arts and filmmaking into a martial arts movie or series? The only problem? I was way better at watching martial arts than doing them.

So, at an age when most people are learning to golf, I dove into MMA and Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu (BJJ). My plan? Train for a video project, even if it meant starting from square one—and trust me, square one wasn’t pretty. Out of shape and easily winded, I huffed and puffed through early training sessions, filming my sweaty struggle on weekends.

Then, I stumbled upon Sakura Bushidokan, a dojo steeped in the brutal wisdom of Grandmaster Jim Harrison, a legend from the Bruce Lee era. His lethal self-defense system wasn’t for the faint-hearted. At one of his guest seminars, I met Master Sylvio Behring and Brandon Olsen—a BJJ wizard, MMA coach, and human freight train. One roll with him, and I knew: This is my coach.

Fast forward 12 years, and I’m still training under Professor Olsen and Master Sylvio Behring. But let’s rewind to my first day walking into a BJJ dojo. Picture this: a room full of people trying to choke each other unconscious or break limbs. My first thought? Why on earth would anyone do this willingly? And yet, I stayed.

Training was hell. Imagine a grown man controlling your entire body like a puppet master while casually chatting with someone else. It’s humbling—scratch that—humiliating. Add the reality check that I couldn’t defend myself against a decently trained toddler, and you’ve got the recipe for existential despair. I thought back to my old bouncer gigs and shuddered at how unprepared I’d been. But despite the aches, vomit-inducing cardio, and puzzled looks from friends who thought I’d joined a cult, I kept showing up.

Why? That question haunted me for years. Then I realized: the mats don’t lie. If you haven’t trained, you’ll know it when you get submitted by the guy who has. BJJ is pure truth—unforgiving, honest, and liberating. The world is full of shortcuts and fake results, but on the mats, it’s all real. And that’s why I kept coming back, even when I wanted to quit every single day.

Sure, BJJ won’t make you rich or famous, but it will make you you. Over time, you stop obsessing over your shortcomings and start helping others. First, it’s the new guy—you minimize his suffering because you’ve been there. Later, as you teach, you’re forced to know your stuff inside-out. Eventually, your awareness expands to the entire room, and you start caring about your teammates’ lives beyond the dojo.

BJJ teaches love through accountability. The mats hold you accountable, then your coach, then yourself. It’s a system of tough love that teaches you to set and uphold your own standards, on and off the mats. That same accountability makes you a better parent, friend, and human.

So now, when I walk into a dojo, I don’t see a room full of murder. I see a room full of love. Tough, sweaty, arm-bar-giving love—but love, nonetheless.