Wirabjj: Family, Grit & Grappling Adventures, Brunswick Heads, Brunswick Heads (2026)

As a single mum and her two energetic boys, we embrace the challenges of training and compete together, celebrating the strength of family and community.

02/08/2025

I Got My Blue Belt

It started in the car, with my son in tears, telling me he hated jiu-jitsu and hated losing.
And I realised—I was asking him to be brave in ways I wasn’t willing to be myself.

He’d started strong, winning comps. But as the kids got better, he couldn’t just rely on instinct or aggression anymore. He needed technique. And time. And when things got hard, he hit a wall.

I told him, “Losing is part of growing.”
He snapped back:
“What would you know? You don’t train. You don’t compete. Don’t talk to me.”

And he was right.

I wasn’t walking the talk. He couldn’t see me wrestle with fear or failure. He couldn’t feel me in the struggle. And without that connection—my words couldn’t land.

Then a few days later, in a mentor session, I was told:
“You avoid hard things. You show up when it’s easy. You want to lead? Start showing up when it’s hard.”
That one stung.
I’m the leader in my home. The constant. The safety net. The mother. The doer.
But I wasn’t modelling grit—I was just talking about it.

The truth? I was terrified.
Terrified of rolling with men.
Terrified of breaking down.
Of having a trauma response.
Of all the parts of me I’d spent years keeping tightly wrapped suddenly rising to the surface in front of strangers.
I didn’t trust my body to be okay. I didn’t trust that I’d be safe.
What if I froze?
What if I cried?
What if I couldn’t pull myself back together?

So, I booked a private. Then another. Then another.
And three months later—I showed up to class.
That was two years ago.

Since then, I’ve learned more about myself on the mats than I have in five years of therapy.
Jiu-jitsu has become a mirror. A teacher.
I’ve sat in the discomfort of powerlessness.
I’ve noticed when I collapse, and why.
I’ve explored my relationship to strength, control, and surrender.

And I’ve come to understand that healing isn’t always found in silence or solitude—but in safe, embodied practice.

Rolling with men who respect my boundaries, who value my safety without needing to be told—that has been healing in ways I still don’t fully have words for.

My nervous system has slowly, gently learned something new:
It’s okay to soften.
It’s okay to stay.
The old beliefs I inherited—about men, about the world, about myself—don’t hold the same weight anymore.

I’ve returned what was never mine to carry.
And in its place, I’ve found something else entirely:
Belonging.
Fun.
Freedom.
Jiu-jitsu gave me a space where mistakes aren’t punished. Where trying is enough. Where I can roll, lose, cry, laugh—and still be welcomed back with open arms.

After one comp, my coach said,
“You almost had that straight ankle lock.”
And I flinched, waiting for the critique.
But it never came.
Just appreciation.
Just effort being seen.

My kids have watched me lose nine times.
They’ve held me while I cried.
They’ve echoed my own words back to me.
One time, after a comp, I sat on the beach sobbing—feeling like I didn’t understand what was happening, why I wasn’t improving fast enough.
And my 12-year-old just sat with me.
Now, when they lose, they let me hold them.
Because they know I get it.

If I hadn’t stepped onto the mats, we may have never found that kind of empathy.

On my birthday, I woke up late—class had already started. I nearly didn’t go.
That voice in my head said: “They won’t care if you’re not there.”
But I went anyway. Half asleep, still brushing my teeth in the car.
I walked into the gym, and they sang Happy Birthday.
It felt weird. But also warm.
I’ve spent most of my life feeling like I’m on the outside looking in.

Like connection was something everyone else found easily—something I was always chasing.

But jiu-jitsu let me in.
Not because I did anything special.
Just because I showed up. Over and over again.
And somehow… that was enough.
The way I parent has changed too.
There’s more space now—for mistakes, mess, emotion.

Less focus on performance, more on process.
It’s not about getting it all right.
It’s about being in it, together.

To the woman who’s scared to start—this is for you.
You don’t need to be fearless.
You don’t need to be strong.
You don’t need to know what you’re doing.
You just need to show up.
Shaky hands, racing heart and all.
Roll when you’re ready.
Pause when you need.
Speak when it’s too much.
And let jiu-jitsu hold the rest.

This is where it begins.
2 years
9 comps
1 blue belt
Countless lessons

And a nervous system that now knows: I’m safe here.

With Love

Anastasia

12/11/2024

Wrestling for BJJ!

15/10/2024

QBJJC Brisbane Open 2024

It’s 11 p.m., and here I am, frantically packing our bags for the next day’s competition. I've got the gi’s, no-gi, lollies, extra clothes, drink bottles, snacks, and more no-gi gear—but, of course, I can’t find my belt. Stress levels are through the roof, as usual, before a comp. I check the time. Damn it, I should have been in bed by now, or I’ll never wake up in time. Crossing the QLD border means I gain an extra hour of sleep though, right? Small victories.

The next morning, we pile into the car, heading to Iona College. It's cold and rainy, and Leo is not thrilled to be joining this time. Meanwhile, Xander and I chat about our game plans—how we might approach different situations on the mats. I always feel good on the drive, confident. The nerves? They never hit me until I step into the competition space.

Xander’s buzzing with excitement. “I can’t wait to bring home double gold, Mum!” he grins. I smile back, trying to keep him grounded, “That’s awesome, mate! Just remember to use the best tools in your jiu-jitsu kit.” His confidence is a mix of inspiring and anxiety-inducing. I've seen him walk into matches brimming with self-assurance only to get smashed, and that look of pain and disappointment is hard to swallow as a parent. It’s a tricky balance—encouraging confidence while keeping it realistic.

We walk in, drop our bags, and that familiar sinking feeling hits. My hands tremble. “Oh boy, I’m nervous,” I admit, handing Xander his gi. He just beams back at me. “I’m not, I’m excited—I’m gonna smash it today!” Off he goes, full of energy, while I try to calm the storm in my head.

Xander waits at Mat 3, all smiles and thumbs up. Meanwhile, I’m chewing my nails, trying to find the perfect spot to record his match. What if he doesn’t win? It’s okay, I remind myself, losing is learning. But what if it knocks his confidence before Pans? Oh, the mental gymnastics of being a jiu-jitsu mum!

He crushes his first fight, keeping guard and finishing with a triangle—against a grey-black belt, no less. Next up, a yellow-white belt. He’s fought this kid before and won, but that doesn’t guarantee anything. You never know how hard your opponent has been training. I learned that the hard way—my first fight was against an 18-year-old with zero wins and six losses. She wiped the floor with me and later became Australia’s No. 1 heavyweight woman for 2024. So yeah, you never know.

Xander fights up a weight division, competing at 42.5 kg when he only weighs 38 kg. He scrambles well, secures positions, and wins by points. For context, Xander is a four-stripe grey-white belt, regularly facing grey-blacks and yellow belts who have at least 12 to 24 months more experience than him. In his last comp, he lost by just two points to a kid a year older, five kilos heavier, and with 5+ years more comp experience. This kid has grit.

After his no-gi, it’s my turn. Anxiety is through the roof as I put on my gi and head into the bullpen. I remind myself that this is just for fun—no pressure. I already know how to lose, so what’s the worst that can happen? I practice some breathing, throw in a bit of EFT (because why not?), and wait for my match.

My goal for the day? Just score some damn points. I’ve competed five times and never put any points on the board. If I don’t get points today, I told myself I’d take a year off to work on my game. In my first fight, I got six points! I even pulled off a sweep and found myself on top. I was thrilled—finally, progress! I lost the match by three points, but who cares? I got on the board! Now, for the absolute gi division, my only goal is to beat my previous six-point record.

Watching the match before mine, I see one of the women get obliterated. She walks past me with a small smile and says, “Good luck!” Thanks, I think. I know my next opponent is fast and loves foot sweeps. But I’ve got my 'good kuzushi', so I’m ready. I get the takedown, knee ride, mount, gift wrap—it’s going well. I attempt a gift wrap Ezekiel choke but can’t finish it, so I stick with the mount. Final score? 19-0. Xander is on the sidelines, screaming, “Go Mum!”

That moment when they raise your hand in victory—it’s surreal. I’ve never won anything before. As the eldest of six kids, there was no time for sports or activities. My mum did her best, but survival was the priority. So to be standing there, hand raised, after out-grappling another woman, was a big deal. But the best part? Xander running into the bullpen, wrapping his arms around me, and saying, “I’m so proud of you, Mum—that was awesome.”

I had six fights that day and walked away with three wins—one bronze, two silvers, and a gold in the gi absolute division.

I’m proud of Xander, too. Not just for his wins but for his humility, his tenacity, and his ability to stay adaptable and flexible in tough situations. He’s grown into such a resilient young warrior, but that journey hasn’t come without tears, losses, meltdowns, and moments of doubt. He’s been through 17 comps now, and it’s been a rollercoaster.

I’m also grateful for the way Xander supports me. At Nationals this year, after my first roll, he came up to me and said, “You did great, Mum—would you be open to some feedback?” He waited patiently while I gathered myself and got into the right headspace to take it in. It was clear, clean, and constructive—a reflection of all the amazing coaches, teachers, and family who have shaped him thus far. At every comp, it's the same question - even after my win 'Would you like some feedback?'

This journey? It’s tough, but we’re in it together. And that’s what makes it worth every moment..

09/10/2024

Tokyo Takedowns: A Female White Belt's Adventure at Imanari Jiu-Jitsu Academy October 2024

First off, let’s get something straight: I’m not a jiu-jitsu expert, not even close. I’m a single mum who got roped into this by my two boys, 7 and 9 at the time. One day, they wandered into a dojo (after being invited in off the street—how Australian is that?), and next thing I know, I’m watching them grow stronger, more confident, and far better at problem-solving than me. I thought, “This is good for us. I need to give it a go.” Fast-forward 12 months, and after a lot of “You should try it, Mum!” I finally signed up. Now, 10 months in, I train four days a week, have competed five times, and… still haven’t won a comp fight. Yet.

Now, let’s talk Tokyo and the infamous Imanari Jiu-Jitsu Academy. I stepped out of Yotsuya-Sanchome station, trusty Google Maps in hand, wondering if I’d bitten off more than I could chew. This gym has seen some of the biggest names in jiu-jitsu pass through, and here I was, a 33-year-old Aussie mum, 10 months deep into my white belt journey. Should I have started my adventure jujitsu with a smaller gym? Probably. Did I? Nah. Go big or go home.

So there I was, alone in Japan, with a solid arsenal of 8 Japanese words (none of them being “tap,” mind you—it's gibu appu), wondering how I’d fare against a room full of men I couldn’t communicate with. But hey, nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?

Google led me down a small side street where I found a tiny sign—kanji at the top, “Jiu-Jitsu” in English below. Didn’t look like a gym; more like someone's house. Just as I was contemplating this, a woman in work gear appeared, took one look at me in my tights, and asked, “Jiu-jitsu?”

“Yep!” I followed her down into what looked like a residential basement, but instead, it was a room with shiny blue mats. A handful of people were already chatting, and I was introduced to Kazoo, a female black belt. Let me tell you, female black belts in jiu-jitsu are like unicorns. I silently prayed she’d ask me to roll later.

Then I met the instructor, Jonathon—a warm, friendly guy who spoke both Japanese and English. Phew.

We started with break falls (ukemi) and spent the entire class on one takedown. No flashy techniques, just solid basics. Jonathon broke the move down into steps that even my tired, jet-lagged brain could manage. I struggle with takedowns. They’re my kryptonite, so this slow, methodical practice was exactly what I needed and he made it fun!

When it was time to change partners, I got a bit nervous, but everyone made me feel welcome. Even the guys who didn’t speak English managed to communicate with hand gestures and basic phrases. It was one of those moments where you realize jiu-jitsu has its own universal language.

Now, let’s talk sparring. Nearly everyone I rolled with started from seated, which was a new one for me. They’re big on leg locks and playing the guard game, which made me really work my passing. My knee cuts? Let’s just say they weren’t cutting it. But hey, that’s why I’m here—to learn. I got stuck in a few heel hooks (okay, more than a few), and it was a good reminder to work on patience and resilience—because nothing tests your grit quite like constantly ending up in a heel hook.

I got the opportunity to roll with one of the rarest creatures in the jiu-jitsu jungle—a female black belt. She was smaller than me, but don’t let that fool you. She moved like water, fluid and quick, flowing from position to position with an ease I could only dream of. We had an awesome roll. Her speed and technique were something else, and to top it off, she was welcoming and friendly. She even took the time to show me a takedown technique that was simple but effective, something I desperately needed in my arsenal. It’s not every day you get to roll with a female black belt—there just aren’t that many of them around—so that experience was especially memorable for me.

The sparring energy at Imanari Jiu-Jitsu was different from what I’ve experienced back home in Australia. It was incredibly fluid, like a chess match, with a clear focus on technique over strength. No one was muscling through positions; everything was about precision and control. The slower pace gave me a moment to reflect on my own training—where, as a middle/heavyweight competitor, I sometimes find myself relying on strength in certain situations or feeling overwhelmed by the strength difference with some of the men and women I’ve rolled with in Australia. This experience helped me reassess and focus more on honing my technique. It was an opportunity to grow and truly appreciate the beauty of jiu-jitsu’s fluidity. The shared respect and camaraderie at Imanari reinforced why I love this art so much.

I even got to roll with Jonathon. He said, “I only do standup,” and I thought, This is it. The jiu-jitsu gods have smiled upon me. But here’s where my neurodivergent brain got me—I took him literally. Every time I hit the ground, I popped right back up because, well, he only does standup, right? I must’ve looked like I was in some kind of jack-in-the-box competition. By the sixth time I hit the mats, I was really feeling those 30,000 steps I’d clocked sightseeing earlier that day. Then, just before the bell—boom! I hit the mats so hard I practically bounced, and all the air in my lungs evacuated like I’d forgotten to pay rent. Why? Because in my moment of glory, I forgot the most basic of basics: the break fall. Let me tell you, there’s nothing quite as humbling (or embarrassing) as hitting the deck like a sack of potatoes as a visitor in an academy. Panic set in as I scrambled to remember how to breathe, but Jonathon was calm, grounded, and helped me reset without a hint of judgment. That moment wasn’t about the techniques or the sparring; it was about how he responded when things didn’t go to plan. That’s what makes a great teacher, and it was a reminder that jiu-jitsu, at its core, brings out the best in people.

I went back on Saturday morning for some more rolls and had the incredible honour of sparring with Mr. Masakazu Imanari himself. Yes, the Imanari. If they sold a shirt saying, “I Got Subbed by Imanari,” I would’ve bought three. His willingness to roll with a random Aussie white belt speaks volumes about his character and the culture he’s built in his academy.

So, if you ever find yourself in Tokyo, don’t forget to pack your rashguard. A visit to Imanari Jiu-Jitsu Academy is an unforgettable experience, whether you’re a seasoned competitor or just an everyday mum like me, dreaming of being subbed by a legend. It's a journey filled with growth, connection, and a love for the martial art that knows no borders.

Address

Brunswick Heads
Brunswick Heads, NSW
2483

Telephone

+61494142885

Website

http://www.wirabjj.com/

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