Read Flowing with the Go for Free Online Page B

to the last four years of my life, as I struggled to survive the anguish of my daughter’s sudden death.
    When I started rolling, I was damaged goods. I had a broken heart, low confidence, and high anxiety; I didn’t believe I was worth my time. After a couple of weeks of Jiu-Jitsu, I was even more damaged— physically. I popped a rib cartilage learning to “escape from mount,” and it hurt to cough, laugh, and . . . well, breathe. But I had committed in my mind to a year, so I wrapped my ribs in a six-inch-wide bandage and told myself that when I healed, I seriously needed to work on my core. I still wanted to go in—even with the injury—because the gym had become part of my routine. My parents called it therapeutic (this made me smirk at the time). I looked forward to my Thursday night to myself, when I could work up a good cleansing sweat. My dear friend Kelly liked to tell everyone I was a cage fighter. She also thought it was funny to ask me, loudly, in public places, “How is your BJ (long pause) J class going?” Very funny. I had to keep telling everyone I was not a cage fighter and my husband that I only rolled with women (heh heh). No one really cared why I was going. Already they were seeing a difference in me that I could not yet see in myself. Apparently I was in recovery, but I was the last to know.
    One of my other early BJJ injuries was to my shoulder. A big Samoan guy put me in a keylock/Americana (see Jiu-Jitsu University, page 330) with a bit too much enthusiasm. My shoulder was painful to use for a couple of weeks. But things were going okay, and I was able to participate mostly using my other arm—that is, until we sparred. I was set to spar with a strong and experienced guy. I asked him to watch my shoulder, and I was having difficulty doing moves. He made the remark, “You shouldn’t be here.”
    I was devastated and bolted out of the gym as soon as class ended, trying not to cry. Of course my wounded state of mind was telling me that he was right. What was I doing there? I couldn’t do it. I’m hurt and I’m not any good and I’m a wussy because I’m crying. I should have been captain of the negative self-talk team. By this time in my grief journey, I was an expert at driving while crying, so I started to leave the parking lot when I heard the beep that indicated I had a text. It was Coach asking me if I was okay. “No!” I replied, and I texted him my tale of woe and how unfriendly “that guy” was.
    Of course, it turned out that the guy merely meant that I should stay home and take care of my arm until it is healed. But I was at this overly sensitive time in my life, and beating up on myself was the only fight I knew I could win.

10
Coach and His Guns
    â€œA leader is one who knows the way, goes the way, and shows the way.”
    â€” John C. Maxwell
    C oach James Foster, “Coach,” is an imposing physical force. He is six foot five and weighs 255 pounds. His biceps are “licensed to carry” (i.e., guns), and he has other muscles that barely fit under his gi. He has the overtly masculine ability to be clean-shaven at the morning class and have a full beard by the evening class. Coach has a calm and soothing instructional voice, but there is a tone he can dial into that triggers a fight-or-flight response. It is the tone that most often accompanies the command “move!” Some of my teammates and I haven’t forgotten the youngster in the li’l tykes class (ages four to six) being carried out the door by his father, bawling because Coach wouldn’t give him a star sticker after class. “You were not paying attention in line, so no star today.” Yikes. Can you see why even big-time fighters find him intimidating? I would cry too if I didn’t get a star.
    Coach started his martial arts training at the age of ten, when he began practicing a style of Karate called