In the beginning, every one of our jiu-jitsu students is given a white belt.
Pristine. No wrinkles. No stripes. Nothing but potential.
Soon after, you’ll notice their eyes start to scan the room. They see other students with stripes on their belts—tape fraying at the edges, sweat-stained, worn. They see those same students standing ahead of them in line. Ahead of them are blue belts. Then purple. Maybe even a brown belt. And occasionally, the rare and revered faixa preta—the black belt.
Belts mean something in martial arts—because people tie their worth to achievement.
And while anyone can buy a belt (Clinch Fight Shop would happily sell you a black one today), the truth is: a belt only means something when it’s earned.
I’ve got a black leather belt that’s been holding up my jeans for ten years—it’s never made me any more dangerous.
The belt you wear with your gi means something because it’s a symbol of hard work. It’s forged in sweat, setbacks, progress, and persistence.
So before you ever think about asking your professor, “When am I getting promoted?”—scratch that—never ask your professor when you’re getting promoted.
Before you even ask yourself when, ask yourself:
“Have I done the work?”
You’re not rewarded with a belt.
Your belt is a reflection—of your ability to execute, your ability to problem-solve under pressure, and your willingness to grind when no one’s watching.
It reflects your commitment to your craft.
Let me give you an example.
Let’s say two students start training at the same time.
Student One is naturally gifted. Fast learner. Physically strong. A real problem for others at his level—even giving some blue belts a hard time. But he’s always the first to leave after class. Rarely drills extra. Doesn’t ask questions. Trains twice a week, but any more than that and he starts to lose interest.
Student Two isn’t gifted. In fact, they’re out of shape. But they’ve made a promise to themselves: this journey is about getting better. Since starting jiu-jitsu, they’ve quit smoking, started eating cleaner, lowered their blood pressure, slept better, and reduced their stress. They train three times a week and stay late to drill. They get submitted often—but they embrace the process. They celebrate small victories and chase growth, not validation.
Six months in, both students sign up for their first tournament.
Both are nervous.
Student One worries that if he doesn’t win, it’ll set him back from promotion—maybe it’ll all feel pointless.
Student Two is nervous too. He’s never competed, never performed in front of a crowd. He’s worried about his gi fitting right, warming up properly, and just doing his best. But he also accepts that this is something new, and he welcomes the challenge.
They both lose.
Student One is crushed. He disappears from training. The loss rattles him. He sees himself as fixed—unchangeable. The belt he wanted suddenly feels out of reach.
Student Two is disappointed—but curious. He asks his coach for feedback. He watches his match recordings and takes notes. He’s already thinking about what to fix for next time—because he knows there will be a next time. He starts training more. He stays late more. He seeks the hard rolls. He leans into the discomfort.
Over time, this mentality rewires who he is—physically and mentally. He’s no longer just training to get better at jiu-jitsu. He’s becoming something new.
And when that promotion eventually comes, it won’t be because he chased it.
It’ll be because he earned it.
When you chase the work instead of the rank, you build the skills that make the rank inevitable.
At the end of the day, belts don’t make you dangerous. What you build in the process does.
What matters more than any promotion is becoming the kind of martial artist who embodies the standard—not just wears the color.
So stop asking, “When do I get promoted?”
Start asking, “What can I do today to become undeniable?”
