Solitude and Isolation

When I started coaching it was mostly by accident.  I was still fighting.  I had my own coaches.  They were amazing.  My MMA coach was something of a legend in the area—he was that good.  I never took for granted the fact that he considered me as one of his own.  His academy was about an hour away from my home gym, and I considered it worth the drive to see him a couple times a week.

The academy where I was training (not the one where my MMA coach taught) lost its regular coach.  Life happens and he was forced to move on to other things.  That left me as the senior fighter on the team, and it made sense to make the new coach—at least, it made sense to somebody.  So, I started coaching, even if just a little against my will.

I had a small group of fighters, and they seemed receptive despite my clumsiness as a new coach.  I was still travelling to see my MMA coach, and now his instruction centered around me as a coach as much as it did around me as a fighter.  He was always supportive of my journey and provided as much insight as I would allow.  I did my best to leave as much room for insight as possible.

After several weeks in my new role, the time finally came for a couple of my fighters to test their skills.  They were booked for a local show for their first ever fights.  We’d put together a solid training camp, and I felt like they were probably ready—but I was a new coach, so I really didn’t know for sure.

It just so happened that, on that very same night, my own MMA coach had a couple fighters on the card, as well.  He was going to be there, too.  Word about this trickled down to the fighters I was coaching—they found out that my coach was going to be there for the show.

They approached the head coach at my home academy.  “Could you talk to Coach Erik and see if he’ll be in our corner for the fight?” they asked.

“Why?”

“He’s Joel’s coach, and that means he’s better than Joel.  We want the best coach to be in our corner.”

“That’s stupid,” sometimes my friend the head coach is rather blunt.  “Joel’s the best coach for your corner because he’s the coach who’s been working with you.  He knows you and Erik doesn’t.  Erik is a great fighter, and better than Joel, but he’s not going to be allowed to get in the cage and fight with you.  You’re going to have to fight your fight on your own.”

In all my years as a fighter, I never fought a fight with anyone but myself.  It was always me, my opponent, and whatever referee was there.  It was my job to fight whatever opponent was placed in front of me.  There was never an option to call for someone else to do the fighting.

In some ways it was a very isolating experience.  I had a team, I had a corner, I had coaches, and I had training partners.  They did everything they could to see that I was ready.  They put their own bodies on the line to make sure my body was prepared to face what lay ahead.    They showed up and surrounded me.  They pushed me and prepared me.  I had a community, but only up to the moment of the fight.

On fight night, when that bell rang, they remained outside of the cage.  They stayed on the other side.  They left me by myself to face what was standing before me.  They left me because they had to.  Those were the rules.

The rules in the cage were always the easy part.  The fight itself was difficult, yes, but I always knew what to expect and what was expected.  I only wish life were a little similar.  I don’t know the rules here.

I don’t think I’m supposed to fight alone.  But I also think I’ve allowed myself to grow accustomed to fighting alone.  It’s a habit of sorts now, and I’m pretty sure it’s not a very good habit.  At least, it’s not a good habit for me.  It seems like there was a precedent sent long before my time.

Then the LORD God said, "It is not good for the man to be alone." (Genesis 2:18) 

Sometimes I need to be alone, and I think that’s OK.  I enjoy being around people.  There are some I especially enjoy being around.  But there are also times when I need to be by myself or on my own.  Those times can be genuinely recuperative.  I can draw a certain sort of energy from them.

But not all the time.  Especially if I’m not careful.

If I’m not cautious, I run the risk of my solitude becoming isolation and isolation is always dangerous to me.  Isolation doesn’t regenerate me.  It cripples me.

There’s a difference between solitude and isolation.

I like solitude.  I need it. 

I hate isolation.  It’s bad for me.  But still, I seek it.

I don’t always know the difference until it’s too late.  The difference can be so subtle that it captures me before I have the chance to defend myself.

There are times when I feel like I need to be alone, but I also hate being by myself.  I know that solitude is heathy to me, but I also know that isolation is dangerous.

If this sounds confusing it’s because this is confusing to me.

I recognize that solitude is sometimes important, maybe event needed.  Even Jesus needed solitude from time to time.

Yet He often withdrew to deserted places and prayed. (Luke 5:16) 

Jesus’ solitude appears to have had a purpose—He withdrew too pray.  He withdrew to have time with God.  He sought solitude to be with God.  There is no greater purpose, and there is no greater source of renewal.

There’s a great benefit to this type of solitude, even though it’s a solitude I’m not particularly good at.  This solitude can be a source of comfort and solace.  It’s a chance to meditate, explore meaning, or even sit and write a project like this.  Solitude is an opportunity to forego the noise of the world and focus without distractions.

When I find myself in true solitude, I find new connections.  I find new connections with God and others.  Because my solitude is intentional and purposeful, it strengthens my relationships and builds a spiritual tissue of sorts.  Solitude is a source of strength when I embrace it intentionally.

I’ll admit that I’m not good at intentional solitude, which might be why my solitude so easily transforms into unintentional isolation.

One who isolates himself pursues selfish desires; he rebels against all sound judgment. (Proverbs 18:1) 

Unlike solitude, isolation is nothing more than detachment.  It’s not quiet.  It is nothing but noise.  There is no connectivity to it.  There is only distance and confusion.

Inspired by overwhelming sensations of guilt, shame, frustration, and anger, I choose to withdraw myself from everything that might threaten my self-imposed gloom.  I think it’s a punishment that I levy on myself as a form of penance.

That’s why isolation feels like forever.

It feels like forever because I can’t make myself believe I’m worthy of anything else.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had to do it this way.  Tournament days are long, and this tournament day is no different.  Most of the day was dedicated to coaching kids—dozens of matches.  They did well and I’m proud of them.

Now it’s my turn.  The adults compete at the end of the day in this tournament and I’m one of two adults from my team.  The other adult has already done her thing.  I’m all that’s left, and I’m on the warmup mats by myself.  None of my teammates are here.  My favorite and most consistent training partner has moved away—he couldn’t make it today.  I’ve grown accustomed to him being here to warm up with.  None of the competition team are here, either.  It’s just me.

I feel very alone.

My hood is up and I’m trying to move around, to get a sweat going.  It’s not the same as warming up with a partner.  It’s a solitary experience.

I hear my name called.  I walk over to the scales to weigh in.  There’s no real reason to weigh in.  I’m competing above my weight class today.  They’re all younger than me, too.  But it feels like they’re always younger than me, anymore.

The mat coordinators file us into a waiting area where every one of my soon future opponents and I stand together.  I’m not alone anymore.  I’m standing with all the men I’m about to fight.  Everyone is classy and polite—very respectful to the senior grappler in the mix.  I’m not alone, but I am alone.

I’m all by myself with my hood still up, flanked by others on every side.

They walk us out to mat-side.  We’re supposed to listen for our names so we know when our next match is about to start.  There’s another bracket in front of us, just finishing.  One of the competitors is a fighter I faced last time I competed in this tournament.  He steps off the mat and slaps my shoulder, wishing me the best.

He’s here, so I’m not alone. 

But I’m still alone.

It’s amazing to me how subtly isolation creeps.  I don’t understand why.  I don’t like being alone, but I run to it like a dark cave, expecting that the lack of light will hide me.  I fear that my shame, my failure, and my weakness will be seen when I find myself in the company of others—and I fear, worse, that they will compound in intensity when I realize that those around me have seen me return to weakness time after time.  They must be weary of me expressing the same missteps over and over and over again.

In my isolation there is only me and my own mind.  I push all else to the edges, away from me to a place where I think I can control the external inputs.  I wrestle with the demons in my own mind, powerless to prevent them from growing in strength and in numbers.  Every fight unearths a new fight, reveals a new condemnation, and spurns a new battle.

The soft power of my self-imposed isolation begins to crush my spirit until I can barely breathe.  And, in those ragged, gasping insights, I begin to realize how badly I have erred—how I have cut myself off from all that sustains me.

I wish so much for something—for someone—to pierce the shadow of this isolation.  A phone call, a knock at my door, a hand on my shoulder—I’m desperate for almost anything to wreck this fugue.

Conversely, I resist and resent that interruption, that thing that disrupts my self-oppositional state of mind.

The more I fight the more fights I find to fight. 

I’m watching the first match in my bracket from behind the obscure safety of my hood.  I’m moving a little and trying to stay warm.  I’m not sure when I’m up, but I know my turn is coming soon.  I find myself casting furtive glances to the men—the very large young men—that I am soon to face.  I’m asking myself why I do this to myself.

I’ve got other things on my mind, too.  Usually, I can find some sort of focus, but this isn’t one of those days.  I can’t separate the anxiety and emotion of impending combat from all the anxiety and emotion waiting for me when I leave this building.  My mind can’t keep my fights separate.  Not this time.  Everything feels like one fight.  It all feels heavy.

My hood is up, so I can’t see through my peripherals, but I feel a tap on my shoulder.  I turn to see where it came from.  Two of the young people are standing there.  They stayed around to watch me compete, even though their matches were done hours ago.

“Good luck, Professor Joel,” they say to me.  “We know you’re going to do great.”

They’re not here by themselves.  They’re kids, and kids need supervision.  My eyes lift to the place where a cluster of parents and other young people are standing.  They all gave up their time to stay for my match.  One of them waves.  Her English isn’t great, but I hear her say, “we all stay for you, Joel.”

I don’t think I’m supposed to fight tears before I fight a young ultra-heavyweight, but that’s exactly what I’m doing.  I don’t know why it’s so liberating, but it is.

I hear my name and I step to the edge of the mat, waiting for the referee to wave me forward.  I remove the sweatshirt I’ve been hiding behind because I’m not allowed to compete in it.  Before it can touch the ground, my coach takes it from my hand.  He’s already taking his place at the side of the mat.

As I bow onto the mat, I realize that I’m not alone.  I have a fight to fight, but I never fight alone.

For some reason, isolation seems to draw me like some sort of malevolent magnet.  There is an enemy of my soul, and my enemy knows that I can be cut down without effort if I can be separated from my flock.  I think I’m strong, sometimes, but I’m not strong enough to fight alone.

My enemy knows this.  He’s a crafty enemy.

I’m good at descending into isolation.  I would call it a skill if it were something worth having.  But I hate that I’m good at it.  I hate that it is so natural to me.  I hate isolation, even though I crave it.

I want to ascend.  I want to climb out of my isolation so that I can find solitude.  I want to find solitude so that I kind find the sort of connection that can only be built in solitude.  I don’t want to crave detachment.  Distance has nothing of value to give me.

I can’t carry my isolation on my own shoulders.  I must give it away.  I must give it away or it will grind me into extinction.

Carry one another's burdens; in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.  (Galatians 6:2) 

I was reminded of this absolute truth a few times this week.  One of those times came while I was surrounded by a group of men whose presence has held me steady over the years.  They mean the world to me.

We were sharing our lives—because we share a lot of life—when one of them looked at me and commented, “Joel, you look like you have something on your mind.”

He was right.  I did have something on my mind.  I had something on my heart that I had been fighting for some time.  It was a battle I felt like I was losing.  I’ve been losing it for what feels to be a long time by now.  I’d talked about it with them before.  Talking about it again felt like an imposition.

But something in me fought past my own barriers.  “Yes,” I reply, “I have something I’m very burdened with.  But I’ve dominate so much of our time with my stuff.  I don’t want to take more.”

Every one of those men pierced me to the core with their expressions—they cut deep into my soul.  “Don’t you ever take this away from us,” he said.  “Don’t you ever hide from us.”

I think that, perhaps, the only way to ascend from isolation to solitude is through invitation.  I think the only way is to share my weakness as much as I share my strength.  I have to open the door and allow others to see who I really am—even if my addled mind screams that I need to hide me from them.

I fought hard, and I think I fought well.  He was a tough opponent and made me earn every breath.  I like fighting and I can’t stop smiling.  It was a good fight.  This is where I belong.

I step off of the mat into my coach’s arms.  “That might the best I’ve ever seen you fight,” he says.  “That was amazing.”

I look to the intimate group of fans that seem to have shown up to watch me.  They’re still there.  They’re cheering.  They’re waving.  They’re jumping up and down with excitement.  I wish I had their energy, because I still have more matches to go.  That was only my first.

I look and see that sweatshirt of mine on the floor.  I’m warm now.  I don’t think I need it.  I don’t need it and I don’t need the hood.

I have no reason to hide.

Two are better than one because they have a good reward for their efforts.  For if either falls, his companion can lift him up; but pity the one who falls without another to lift him up. (Ecclesiastes 4:9-10)