The first time I fought Ian McCall, I cut carbs completely out of

In the candid and disciplined words of Demetrious Johnson, one of the greatest warriors to step into the fighting arena, we hear not only the voice of an athlete but the echo of an ancient struggle: “The first time I fought Ian McCall, I cut carbs completely out of my diet all through training camp. I was afraid I wasn't going to make weight, that I'd get on the scale, and it would be all, ‘He weighs 128,’ and the people would throw cabbage at me. I basically cut all carbs on the diet, just eat chicken and greens all the time.” These words, though drawn from the modern world of sport, speak to something timeless — the price of excellence, the fear of failure, and the line between discipline and self-denial.

In this reflection, Johnson lays bare the mind of the warrior before battle — the trembling between courage and fear. His fear was not merely of losing the fight, but of losing honor — that sacred respect which, for fighters of all ages, is as vital as victory itself. In the ancient world, the gladiator, the samurai, the hoplite — all faced this same test of endurance. To falter in preparation was to face humiliation before one’s peers. Thus, Johnson’s choice to strip away all carbohydrates, to eat only chicken and greens, was an act of desperation born from devotion. He did not yet know that there is such a thing as being too disciplined, that in seeking to master the body, one may sometimes wound it instead.

To cut away carbs — the fuel of endurance — was to train like a machine while depriving the fire that powers it. His fear, though noble, became his master. He speaks of imagining the crowd’s judgment — “the people would throw cabbage at me” — a scene almost comedic in imagery, yet tragic in its essence. It recalls the Roman amphitheater, where the crowd’s cheers could crown a hero or their jeers could crush a soul. In both ages, the performer — whether fighter, actor, or athlete — faces the merciless gaze of the many. And so, Johnson, like the gladiators of old, hardened his body to face the test, yet in doing so, starved it of compassion.

This act of self-denial carries echoes of ancient ascetics, who believed that strength of spirit came from the restraint of flesh. The monks of the desert, the stoics of Greece — all sought mastery through sacrifice. Yet even the wise among them warned that balance is the true path of strength. Aristotle called it the golden mean — the point between excess and deficiency. Too much indulgence weakens the body; too much restriction weakens the soul. In his younger years, Johnson learned this truth through pain: that to push one’s body beyond its natural design in the name of fear or perfection can destroy the very strength one seeks to build.

In this, he mirrors the story of Milo of Croton, the legendary Greek wrestler who trained by lifting a calf each day until it grew into a bull. His discipline made him a symbol of strength. But legend says that, grown too proud, Milo one day tried to tear apart a tree with his bare hands. His fingers became trapped in its trunk, and he was devoured by wolves. Thus, the lesson is eternal — that even the strong may fall when their discipline becomes obsession, when they mistake endurance for wisdom. Like Milo, Johnson discovered that the path of mastery is not only about effort, but about balance, nourishment, and humility.

When he says, “I basically cut all carbs on the diet,” he reveals the cost of misunderstanding balance. The warrior must learn that strength is not born from denial, but from harmony — between rest and work, hunger and nourishment, body and will. The ancients would have told him that the human being is not made to live on extremes, for extremes are the tools of the gods, not of mortals. The body, like the seasons, requires both the winter of restraint and the spring of renewal. Without both, life withers.

And yet, through this ordeal, Demetrious Johnson came to a greater understanding — that true greatness is not achieved through punishment, but through wisdom. To fight well, one must not destroy the self, but care for it. Fear of shame is a powerful motivator, but it must never be allowed to govern the heart. For the one who trains from fear exhausts his body, while the one who trains from purpose strengthens both body and soul. The champion who endures without compassion for himself may win a battle, but he loses the harmony of life.

So let this be the teaching: Discipline must serve health, not harm it. Courage is not found in suffering alone, but in the courage to care for oneself even while preparing for war. Eat with respect, train with purpose, and let balance be your guide. For the body is the vessel of the spirit — it must be honed, yes, but never broken. As Demetrious Johnson learned, fear may sharpen the blade, but it is wisdom that keeps it from cutting the hand that wields it.

Therefore, O listener, remember: your body is not your enemy. It is the loyal companion of your will, and it deserves both discipline and mercy. Feed it, honor it, and let balance be your greatest strength. For only in balance can true power endure — and only through self-respect can the fighter, or any human being, become whole.