After losing my quarter-final fight, I learned that grieving extends beyond losing a loved one and includes losing something meaningful like a goal as well.
The evening, I walked home with my clubmate Melvin and my coach. It was dark outside, and I remember my attention being absorbed by the glare of the street lamps. While the others chatted, I was quiet and subdued, only murmuring one-worded replies or nods of agreement.
I showered while listening to some music. When I got out, I looked at myself in the mirror. I iced the swelling above my right eye and cleared the remainder of mucus from my throat and sinuses. For a while, I stayed in my room, sitting in silence. Thoughts hummed like static in the background. I flicked through the events like a disorganised Rolodex, trying to grasp what had happened.
As the initial shock morphed, my mind moved from analysing the fight toward shame. It began with a string of thoughts I failed. I am a failure. I am weak.
It wasn’t about my preparation or my opponent. It was about my identity. The loss wasn’t just a setback; it was a reflection of who I was.
Eventually, I went downstairs, grabbed some food, and talked with my coach. He was sympathetic and acknowledged how much the goal had meant to me. The fight had surprised him. In the first round, he thought I would steamroll my opponent. He didn’t think my opponent was any big shake and said he should’ve been warned for slapping a few times. But he could see I wasn’t myself. I wasn’t present in the corner or taking in what he was saying. He thought that if I’d boxed like I did in the Dublin Novices, I could have beaten him.
After that conversation, I began shifting from shame to sadness, no longer believing it was entirely my fault. I created distance between myself and the result: I couldn’t have won. I was still sick. Circumstances determined the outcome, not me.
The following morning, I woke with a dulled sadness. A cloud hung over me for most of the day, broken by conversation or distraction. I rang a few people at home to talk through what happened. They agreed my performance had seemed off and tried to piece together what might’ve gone wrong in the build-up.
Melvin had his semi-final fight that evening and I wanted to support him in his corner with the remaining energy I had. Despite Melvin warming up, he won by walkover due to complications with his opponent’s team being disqualified. That evening, I asked Melvin to get some fresh air with me. We walked and talked, which lifted my spirits. He brought a calming presence and I appreciated him being there.
By Sunday, the sadness had shifted to anger and resentment. In the pit of my stomach sat both. I wanted someone or something to blame. If I’d changed this, done that, or listened to one person over another, maybe the result would’ve been different. It felt unfair. After all the work, I didn’t get the result. In my mind, I blamed people who had simply believed in me more than I’d believed in myself.
Melvin had his final that day and he won by stoppage in the 3rd round. It was a great performance and it brought a positive note to the trip.
I stayed in Porto until Tuesday, relaxing and roaming the city with Melvin.
Before leaving Porto, one of the coaches messaged me saying I’d actually boxed well. I’d picked clean shots and held my own, even if I’d been caught a few times.
His message surprised me. It added a different perspective, softened how I saw the fight and helped bring nuance to the loss.
By the time I returned home, a calmness began to settle. Compared to Porto, everyday life felt lighter. I felt more resilient, like I could handle things better.
Those perspectives eventually balanced out. What remained was simple: I had did the work, but by the final stretch I was drained. The flu, fatigue, and divided focus all played their part. Despite that, I done my best and adapted where I could. My opponent simply boxed better than I did.
One moment still stands out. When I couldn’t find my keys before the fight, I lost composure. That moment showed me how quickly panic can snowball. Next time, I’ll pause and breathe.
No one’s at fault. What matters is what I learn. The lesson once again is composure under pressure. I pushed past my limit and lost composure. However, I also pushed my capabilities. That’s the takeaway and unfortunate truth. Composure isn’t something I can solve; it’s something I keep developing — learning from past challenges and taking on bigger ones.