the white belt diaries

one woman’s journey through brazilian jiu jitsu

recent posts

about

I’m Mae, 32, starting Brazilian Jiu Jitsu to reconnect with my body, rebuild my courage, and finally follow through on something that scares me.
  • the sweat, the smell and the adjustment

    the sweat, the smell and the adjustment

    There is a moment every time I walk into the gym where my senses have to recalibrate.

    The air is heavy before anything else happens. Warm and thick, it carries the unmistakable smell of effort. Twenty people have already been rolling before my class begins, and the room holds onto that smell. The windows are fogged completely, opaque with condensation. Beads of water form instantly on the outside of my bottle. Sometimes the floor is still damp where the mats have just been mopped, and I step onto them carefully, half hoping that what I feel under my feet is disinfectant spray rather than sweat.

    This has been one of the hardest adjustments for me. I work in a hospital, where cleanliness is not just encouraged but enforced. Everything is constantly wiped and sanitised. There is a constant awareness of contamination and control. BJJ exists at the other end of that spectrum. Bodies collide and sweat pools. Sweat is part of the game, we ignore it and keep rolling. The work is physical, intimate and unapologetically human, but at first it made me deeply uncomfortable.

    I remember watching the staff mop the mats between classes, trying to reassure myself. The mop heads are washed daily. There is a cupboard full of clean ones that get rotated constantly. I know this. I have been told this. And still, my mind takes time to catch up with my body when I step onto a mat that is visibly wet.

    It is strange how much of this sport requires trust before you ever learn a technique; trust that the space is safe, trust that your body can tolerate closeness, trust that healthy doesn’t always mean sterile.

    I have noticed that the discomfort fades once the class begins. Once I am moving, gripping, rolling, breathing hard, the sensory overload quiets. Sweat becomes irrelevant when it is your own pouring down your spine. The smell disappears into the background. The mat is no longer something to worry about but something to push against, something that anchors you as you learn where your weight belongs.

    There is something humbling about that shift. About realising how much energy I used to expend avoiding mess, avoiding discomfort, avoiding the physical realities of being human. BJJ does not allow that distance. It insists on presence. It insists on contact.

    I am still adjusting. There are nights when I walk in and feel a flicker of resistance rise in my chest. But it’s starting to soften faster each time. My tolerance is growing and my nervous system is learning that effort does not equal danger.

    This feels important. Not just for jiu jitsu, but for life. For learning that not everything needs to be pristine to be worthwhile. That progress often happens in places that are warm, imperfect, and a little uncomfortable.

    I leave the gym sweaty, flushed, hair sticking to my face, clothes clinging in a way I once would have hated. And yet, I feel clean in a way that has nothing to do with disinfectant; clean because I showed up, clean because I worked hard, clean because I let my sweaty body exist fully, without flinching away from it.

    I think part of what I am really learning here is feeling strong and proud of the sweaty body that made the effort.

    All my love,

    Mae xxx

  • three months in, still showing up

    three months in, still showing up

    I didn’t mean to disappear for three months.

    I think I assumed that once I’d written about my first class, the rest would unfold neatly. That I’d keep showing up, keep improving, keep documenting the journey in tidy little entries. Instead, I realised that I don’t know what the hell I’m doing every time I go to class, and how can I write about what I don’t understand? I’d leave feeling exhausted and confused, thrilled from dopamine but disheartened from feeling like an dumb idiot. But growth started to happen quietly, and I feel I finally have something to say about my journey so far.

    Most weeks, I made it to two classes. Some weeks I didn’t. Sometimes I sacked it off because I was tired or anxious or just couldn’t be bothered. Sometimes I stood in my kitchen already dressed for training and decided I would rather stay home. And sometimes I pushed past that feeling and went anyway. I’m learning that consistency does not have to be perfect to count.

    One of the biggest anxieties I carried in the beginning was the fear of being the only woman there. Not because I don’t believe women can roll with men, but because I didn’t feel ready to navigate that socially. I imagined the awkwardness of having to refuse a roll, the attention it might draw, the explanation I didn’t want to give. That fear followed me into the gym for weeks. Thankfully, that hasn’t happened yet. There has always been another woman. And slowly, quietly, that anxiety has started to loosen its grip. Each time I walk in and recognise a face, each time I tie my belt without thinking too hard, I feel a little less like I’m trespassing in someone else’s space.

    Confidence, I’m learning, does not arrive all at once. It accumulates.

    Part of that shift came when I got my first stripe on my white belt, about two months in. It was such a small thing, a thin piece of tape that would be meaningless to anyone outside the room, but it landed in a surprisingly deep way. Not because it meant I was good, but because it meant someone had been paying attention. Someone had seen that I was turning up, trying, listening, learning. I didn’t suddenly feel capable. But I did feel acknowledged.

    Another part of the confidence has come from no longer feeling completely clueless. I still forget techniques. I still blank under pressure. But I’m not lost in the same way. I understand the structure of the class now and what is expected of me. I know where to stand, when to bow, when to rest, when to try again. That alone has been grounding.

    I’ve also started making friends. Slowly. Mostly with the women. There’s a particular kind of ease that comes from rolling with someone who understands your hesitation without you having to explain it. We don’t talk much outside of class yet, but there’s something about sharing that kind of physical vulnerability that accelerates familiarity. I feel less alone there now.

    Something else shifted for me recently too. I started noticing that even the people I once saw as impossibly competent still hesitate sometimes. Purple belts pause. They reset. They ask questions. They make mistakes. Watching that has been strangely reassuring. The goal is not to reach a point where you know everything. The goal is to keep learning without freezing up when you don’t.

    I’m still anxious sometimes. I still have days where walking through the door feels heavier than it should. But I’m no longer bracing myself for disaster. I’m starting to trust that I belong there enough to take up space without apology.

    Three months in, I’m still a white belt… Now with one stripe.

    I’m still learning, still inconsistent, but still showing up. And right now, that feels like progress.

    Ciao for now,

    Love, Mae xoxo

  • the first roll

    I didn’t give myself time to think my way out of it. A shift that ended barely half an hour before class left me with no space to spiral into overthinking, no window for the quiet, creeping voice that tells me I don’t belong anywhere new. I left work, changed quickly, and drove straight to the gym.

    Walking in, I realised how much my mind had been filling in the unknown with something safe. In my head, I’d foolishly imagined the kind of welcome you get at a yoga studio; reception desk, soft music, plants breathing in the corners. Instead, I stepped almost straight onto the mat. The air was warm and sharp with the smell of effort. A group of men turned to look as I entered, and for a moment, my confidence wavered.

    Then I saw Ella, the woman I’d spoken to on the phone. She came straight over, smiled, and took me in hand as if we’d been friends for years. She showed me around, handed me a gi, tied the belt for me the first time, then taught me how to do it myself. She talked me through the flow of the class and the quiet rules that guide it and finally I felt my shoulders drop. I wasn’t invisible, but I wasn’t exposed either. I was held.

    And then we began.

    There’s a point in so many of my (attempted) yoga sessions lately where I’m bargaining with the clock, asking how much longer until it’s over when I’ve barely begun. I didn’t look for the clock once tonight! My focus was so completely pulled into the tangle of gripping, shifting, rolling, (even choking!) that the usual noise in my head just stopped. My muscles burned, but in a way that felt alive, not punishing. My breath came fast, but it was purposeful, feeding the work. I’d forgotten how it feels to inhabit my body without resentment or judgement.

    Cee, the woman I was paired with, laughed with me through the mistakes, celebrated the small wins, and made space for me to try again when I fumbled. Ella hovered nearby, offering gentle adjustments, sharing her own enthusiasm for the sport in a way that felt like an invitation rather than instruction. In that sweaty, breathless space, pressed close to women I had only just met, I felt a kind of belonging I haven’t felt in years, perhaps the kind only girls can understand.

    It struck me how rare it is to be welcomed into a group through physical closeness. Most connections are built from conversation, from stories shared over time. But here, trust is built in the immediacy of touch: the way someone braces to take your weight, or shifts to give you a better chance to try a move again. There’s an intimacy to that which my words can’t quite reach tonight.

    By the end of the class I was flushed red, hair sticking to my face, my limbs heavy and loose. And yet instead of exhaustion, there was something lighter, like I had given my body back to myself for an hour in pursuit of a fun challenge. It had remembered what to do with it, and girl, what a reward that was.

    Driving home, windows cracked to let in the night air, I thought about how easy it would be to let this be a one-off. The cost, the scheduling, the inertia, my introverted default to spend time at home alone… it all adds up. But I also thought about how rare it is to walk into a room full of strangers and leave feeling more whole than when you arrived.

    Maybe this is the start of something. Or maybe it was just one beautiful night that reminded me I am still capable of starting.

    All my love,

    Mae xxx

  • okay, so… I didn’t go

    I booked the class.
    I braided my hair.
    I even emailed the gym to say, “See you tonight!”

    But I didn’t go.

    It was a free taster session for a woman-only class at the local Gracie Barra gym. I’d found it online a few weeks earlier, then stared at the booking page for longer than I care to admit before finally pressing submit. I was nervous, obviously, but also proud of myself. I’d finally taken a step. A real one. This wasn’t a daydream or a Pinterest board. It was a real class, with a time, and a place, and people.

    The afternoon it was due to happen, I spiralled headfirst into BJJ YouTube. First-timer advice, what to wear, what to expect. Women talking about how they felt after their first class; sore, sweaty, overwhelmed, but also empowered. I wanted to feel like that.

    I spent nearly an hour trying to get my hair into the perfect Dutch braids. Not because anyone cares, but because it made me feel like someone who was going to show up. I wasn’t just preparing; I was convincing myself.

    But I think a part of me already knew I wasn’t going.

    Still, I left on time. I got in the car, played an old favourite album by Jhené Aiko (because your girl Jhené knows how to wrap your nerves in silk), and tried to stay in the zone. I took deep breaths. I imagined myself walking into the gym smiling, being greeted, getting changed. The version of me I saw in my head was so calm and brave. I wanted to be her.

    Then I took a wrong turn. Just a small one. But I got stuck behind a temporary traffic light. Then another.

    The minutes ticked by. And something shifted.

    I could technically still make it, just about. But not early. Not with time to be shown around or ease into the space. I’d be flustered, late, uncertain – and I panicked. The kind of quiet panic that doesn’t scream, just calmly suggests: you don’t have to do this, you know.

    So I didn’t.

    I drove around for nearly an hour, listening to the rest of the album. Letting it wrap around me like a blanket. Then I went home.

    I lit some candles, rolled out my yoga mat and did a few half-hearted stretches in an attempt to salvage the hour, to convince myself I’d moved. But my body felt stiff. My breath shallow. I felt so annoyed at myself! Not just for bailing, but for not enjoying the stretches like I used to. It used to feel incredible, other-worldly almost, the way my body opened and responded to a deep ujjayi breath. But now it feels like I’m moving through sludge. My limbs resist. My mind races. The connection I used to have is gone.

    And I keep wondering… Did I take the wrong turn on purpose? Was I subconsciously hoping to have an excuse? Was this about traffic, or fear?

    Maybe it’s just good old fashioned social anxiety. The idea of walking into a tight-knit martial arts community as a complete beginner is a lot. That’s why I booked a female class, to take some of the nervous edge off. At least I wouldn’t have to look vulnerable in front of men. Maybe instead I’ll book private session first, just to get the lay of the land. Maybe that will help.

    Is this about the class, or is it about what the class represents? Showing up. Committing. Letting myself be new at something. Letting myself try again.

    I don’t have the answer yet.

    But I’m still here. I haven’t given up. I flaked, yes. But I’m writing this. That counts for something (I hope!)

    All my love,
    Mae

  • why the hell am I doing this?

    Lately, I’ve been feeling like I’m not fully here. Not in a dramatic, existential way – just quietly disconnected. Like I’m watching my life happen through glass, while my body moves through it on autopilot.

    I lost my dad almost three years ago, and with him, I lost a huge part of myself. He was the person I was closest to, and his absence left a silence that no playlist, no hug and no book has managed to fill. Since then, all the creative parts of me, the ones he always encouraged, just… stopped. I stopped drawing. I stopped painting. I stopped playing the piano. Even music itself (a massive part of mine and my dad’s lives) became painful to hear.

    But most of all, I lost my connection to my body. I used to feel strong and curious and capable in it. I used to practise yoga regularly, which anchored me through hard times. But now, no matter how many classes I try, I can’t seem to get that feeling back. Something has shifted within me, and I’ve spent years now not knowing how to reverse it.

    My focus, energy and self-belief are dwindling. My mind and body don’t feel like they belong to each other anymore. I feel betrayed by my aching bones, my weak limbs, my shallow breath. On some level, I feel half-dead.  

    It’s wild how quickly the body reverts to survival mode. I’m back where I was before I ever found yoga – a sloth with a share bag of Doritos, horizontal in front of MAFS. And she’s been winning (not that there’s anything inherently wrong with this spellbinding Australian reality TV, but it’s not exactly the healthiest hobby).

    But I’ve had enough.

    Something has to change, or she will drag me under – and I’ll live the rest of my life with my brain half asleep and my body always trying to catch up. So I thought: if yoga isn’t cutting it anymore, what will?

    Ah yes, a martial art. Something that demands effort and failure and sweat and presence. And most importantly, not a gym machine in sight. Because let’s face it girl I am not someone who can summon the motivation to lift weights in front of a mirror.

    I’ve wanted to try Brazilian Jiu Jitsu since my early twenties (now in my early thirties), back when I was listening to far too much JRE. Say what you want about Joe (and god knows, we all have), but one thing he said stuck in my mind: BJJ is the best self-defence system for women. It’s not about size. It’s about leverage, control, and staying calm under pressure. He’d go on and on about how a small woman who trains BJJ could absolutely overcome a much bigger, stronger man who doesn’t. Not with brute force, but with timing, tact and skill.

    As a petite woman, I loved that idea. I still love that idea.

    So here I am, slightly terrified but about to try something that might shake me out of this sleepy grief-hangover. Something that might give me my body back. Or at the very least, a reason to get up and leave the house.

    This blog isn’t for an audience. It’s for accountability. Because if I don’t write it down, I know I’ll flake. I’ll forget. I’ll Netflix and crisp my way back into stillness.

    Maybe this is the beginning of something.

    All my love,

    Mae.