Why Losing is a Skill

"Cut me!" Sensei shouts, pausing his demonstration. The student takes a half-hearted swipe at him, but Sensei’s face flares with disappointment. Grabbing the wooden training knife, he presses it against his own neck. The flesh around the blade sinks slightly under the pressure. With enough speed and force to cut through muscle, he pulls. But no blood emerges.

It’s a good thing these knives are made of wood.

However, the act sets a tone of seriousness.

"Cut me here," Sensei commands, pointing to his neck.

The student takes an uneasy breath and tries again. He is learning to be a better uke.

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The Uke/Tori Relationship

Before we continue, I need to explain something very basic: the uke/tori relationship.

In budo, we train in pairs. One person is the defender, the one executing the technique. She is called the tori. Since she should be the one still standing at the end, you could say the tori is the “winner.”

The other person is the uke—the training dummy. He is on the receiving end of the technique. In our training scenarios, the uke is the unfortunate aggressor. He commits to the initial attack but then takes the tori’s punches, gets his joints locked, and ends up breathless on the ground. Every three to five attempts, the partners switch roles.

Understandably, many novices see the uke’s role as unappealing. Nobody wants to be the "loser," even temporarily. Being the uke hurts. It’s a humbling job—one that can even border on humiliation.

But the uke’s role is just as important—if not more important—than that of the tori. The uke is training indispensable skills, even though he is "losing."

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A Poetic Dynamic

The relationship between uke and tori is... poetic.

The uke must voluntarily attack his partner, fully aware that pain will be inflicted upon him. As you can tell from the earlier example, it’s not easy to get it right.

There’s always a temptation to flinch, miss, or move too fast. But instead of fearing what might happen next, the uke must breathe, let go of anticipation, and deliver his most honest attack.

And when the tori finishes her technique, the uke can’t be hurt or offended because he got thrown around. He must get up and attack again. Calmly. Without anger or competitiveness.

When this dynamic is achieved, the tori gains a deeper understanding of the movement and the principles behind the technique. She can analyze her mistakes, try a different approach, and discover for herself how the technique functions in real-world applications.

The uke, on the other hand, learns to defend himself while also being a productive training partner. He learns how to apply adequate pressure, how to match his partner’s speed, and how to protect himself while offering his body as a training tool. He helps the tori problem-solve and provides valuable feedback.

He should never be willing to get injured, but he also shouldn’t try to “win” the interaction.

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What Is Winning, Anyway?

Years ago, an experienced martial artist came to train with us. Within minutes, his pride made it clear that he had something to prove. As uke, he resisted the tori’s techniques, treating the practice like a fight. There was no way he was going to let a smaller man “beat” him. He thought he could win with speed and strength.

The tori simply stuck with the technique.

The visitor broke three of his own ribs trying to resist. Huffing and puffing, he stormed out of the dojo, claiming that budo doesn’t work and vowing never to return.

Don’t be that guy.

That guy never intended to learn. He created competition where there shouldn’t have been any—and got hurt because of his own foolishness. He either forgot, or never knew, that his job as uke was to facilitate learning, not to win a fight.

But I’m sure that in his past, and likely in his future, he was labeled a “winner” more than once.

Sensei always reminds us: there are no real winners. There are only people who get hurt because they made mistakes, and people who made fewer mistakes than the other guy. But winning doesn’t make them superior or unbeatable.

Anyone can die just as easily as the person next to them.

We train to sharpen our intuition and understand how the body works—so we can move efficiently and avoid fatal mistakes.

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Flow, Don’t Fight

To be an effective partner, you must learn to flow with your partner, not fight them. Step if you’re pushed off balance. Turn your body if a joint is under pressure. Move to positions of lesser resistance instead of digging in and stubbornly holding your ground.

Ironically, by learning to go with the flow, you become more effective in a fight.

When you can flow, you’re harder to read. You learn to use momentum and recognize opportunities. You develop a better sense of timing because you understand the natural progression of movement. Flowing makes you a more formidable adversary—and a better training partner.

But getting there takes practice. It requires putting your ego aside so you can facilitate both your partner’s learning and your own. It requires being a good uke—a good "loser."

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How to Lose Well

To be a good uke, you must learn to take punches. You must recognize the pain that indicates a properly executed technique so you can give your partner honest feedback. You must be willing to get thrown in the dirt for the sake of learning.

And when your partner gets you really good, you must be able to dust yourself off, tell them they did great, and keep training—without your pride or sense of self taking a hit. You were part of that success, after all.

In any relationship, I’ve found it helpful to go with the flow instead of resisting every perceived attack. If someone is being too aggressive, we have options beyond meeting aggression with more aggression.

We can use our training to understand how to close distance in a relationship. We can address knowledge gaps by asking honest questions, even if doing so exposes a vulnerability. Moving dynamically with your training partners—and with life itself—is key to survival.

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The True Purpose of Budo

Yes, budo makes us more skilled at executing lethal techniques.

But more importantly, every training session chips away at our pride. It teaches us that mistakes, losses, and submissions don’t make us lesser human beings. Just as losing well is an integral part of training, it is also an essential and unavoidable part of life.

No one wins all the time.

If you have people around you who are committed to learning and growth, most of your relationships should be safe places where you don’t need to win. And when you make mistakes, the faster you acknowledge them, dust yourself off, and get up, the faster you can return to being a positive contributor to the relationship.

And sometimes, nothing you did was wrong at all. The world can throw some solid punches—and all you can do is take it on the chin, get back up, and keep living your life.

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Why This Matters

I chose to write about this because I find myself explaining this concept frequently in our dojo. Students get hurt or frustrated when they don’t feel like they’re learning. Most of the time, it’s because they’re fighting the technique. They get caught up in their pride (even if they don’t realize it) and subconsciously try to win a false game.

And that impulse—to “win”—is what impedes their learning and leads to injury.

Outside the dojo, I’ve noticed a pattern among people who seem to have endless bad luck. They are often high-conflict individuals who don’t recognize when to yield. They feel their self-worth is at stake if they budge. But ultimately, their stubbornness leads them into worse and worse circumstances.

In both cases, I thought it would be helpful to share this lesson: Giving ground doesn’t mean you’ve lost.

It isn’t embarrassing to step aside, yield, or concede sometimes. Contrary to common belief, it actually makes you a more cooperative partner—and less prone to misfortune.