Wrestling gave me the strength of mind to get out of death's hold

As a boy of a refugee and a racialized soul, I had e'er mat up the likes of an outsider growing up in Canada. But on the wrestling mats, the playing field felt equal.

I’d lace up my boots, lock eyes with my opponent and ready myself for battle. When the bell would ring, I’d seize wrist control and drive in underhooks, sweat dripping as I blasted through my opponent's legs and into a takedown — forcing him into defeat. Life made sense on these mats.

I was 17 when I began thinking about my future beyond the hallways of high school and dreamed of competing at a collegiate level. I felt invincible and bound only by my imagination.

I didn’t know then that just one gut-punching ache would mark the moment my life changed forever.

It was an ordinary December morning in class when I felt a sudden urge to visit the bathroom.

I quickly excused myself from class and made a beeline to the boys' room down the hall. Sitting on the toilet, I ruminated over what I had for dinner the night before. Was it a case of undercooked chicken? That was my best guess.

But what came next, I couldn’t explain: blood. 

During that winter break, I took frequent trips to the bathroom and also had serious cramping. My body felt like it was trying to explode from the inside, and all I could do was dry heave to defuse the bomb.

In the span of two weeks, I had lost 20 lbs. 

I was admitted to the Regina General Hospital in January 2014 and spent a week hooked up to machines. I received intravenous hydration, blood transfusions and an endoscopy.

I remember being wheeled from room to room, the bright white lights burning into my eyes as exhaustion set in. My body was beginning to atrophy after weeks of dehydration, starvation and pain. Mentally, I was numb and angry, dejected at how quickly life had begun to deteriorate. 

When night would fall, I’d stare out the window at the starry sky, wondering how many more sunrises I’d get to see. I had never come this close to death, and I was beginning to realize the fragility of life.

In one moment, I had gone from climbing tournament podiums to shuffling down sterile hospital hallways.

My mind couldn’t stop wondering what had led me to that hospital. Had I eaten too much acidic food? Consumed something toxic in my supplements?

Either way, my dream of being a collegiate wrestler was slipping away.  

I was officially diagnosed with ulcerative colitis — an inflammatory bowel disease where the immune system attacks the colon, leading to abdominal pain, bloody diarrhea, fevers and fatigue.

There is no cure, but I was prescribed treatment and I was able to return to high school. 

I still attended wrestling practice as a spectator to cheer on and support my teammates, even though a big part of me wanted to be on the mats with them.

Wrestling can be an unforgiving sport. Some have described it as high-stakes chess with dire consequences. I agree. The sport bends your body and mind past its breaking point, demanding more, and somehow, someway, there is always more.

As time passed, I moved past my initial anger and numbness and accepted my reality. I looked to the future, focusing on how I might compete as an athlete again one day. 

A bowel disease almost ended his wrestling dreams, but he fought his way back

I began by adjusting my diet by trying to understand how my body responded to different foods and regain weight. I paired this with a workout program centered on progressive overload to build strength and size with each session. 

After a few months, the doctor gave me the news I was hoping for.

“Semir, we have good news, you’ve entered remission.”

Even though I hadn't been on a wrestling mat for a few months, I credit the sport for my comeback.

Wrestling had not only made me physically tough, but also mentally capable of enduring without losing hope. My dream of being a combat athlete never wavered, and I saw a second chance at life beginning to bloom.

When I started university the following year, my days were spent studying and my nights were spent exercising. I began going to an off-campus martial arts gym and trained five times a week. 

Two years into my training, the head coach at the gym brought me into his office one day after practice and asked me if I wanted to compete in an amateur mixed martial arts fight.

I couldn’t say yes any faster. 

We trained for eight hard weeks, and I fell right back into the groove of training camp. The dieting, the exhaustive training – I did it all with a smile, knowing that this had all once been ripped away from me. I cherished every drop of sweat that poured out of my body. 

On fight night, I walked through the tunnel and into a packed arena. As I walked down that ramp, time seemed to move in slow motion as I thought how far I had come. If it wasn’t for the task at hand, I probably would have cried. 

When the cage door closed, the referee provided instructions and I nodded with determined approval. When the bell sounded, once again, life made sense.

They say a second life begins when you realize you only have one. I intend to live mine with a full heart — and a smile on my face. 

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Freelance contributor

Semir Ali is a writer and photographer from Regina. His work explores how experience and meaning shape who we are and the stories we tell.

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