Why the #1 WMMA fighter in Ontario retired at 22

In a memoir piece for Toronto Life, Gemma Sheehan discusses why she walked away from MMA at just 22.

At 13, I moved in with my mom across the street from a kickboxing gym. I tried my first class and knew I’d found my thing. The moves came naturally to me. I felt powerful.

Soon, I was obsessed with training. I stopped going to parties, and I rarely hung out with friends aside from my boyfriend, another fighter I met at the gym. I enrolled in international relations at Glendon College, but I only went to about 60 percent of my classes. I spent much of my time crisscrossing the city to work with multiple trainers: one for Brazilian jiu-jitsu, one for kickboxing, two for wrestling. At the time, UFC fighter Ronda Rousey was on the rise. She was glamorous, beautiful, wealthy, famous. My trainers were telling me I could be the next big thing, and I believed them.

I competed in my first MMA fight at 18, in the bantamweight class, the same one as Rousey. Nothing prepared me for the terrifying moment the announcer called my name. Suddenly a fighter was coming at me. Within minutes, she had me in an armbar, a move that can hyperextend or break the limb at the elbow, and the ref ended it. I lost just like that.

But that first fight was the only one I ever lost. … I never went into a match wanting to hurt anyone, but I knew I had to keep going until the referee stopped me or else I’d be the one getting hurt. People started calling me Gemma Smash. 

I always finished my opponents in the first—except for once. It was a vicious slugfest. She was a head taller than me and all muscle. As the fight dragged on, I became tired and sloppy. She struck me over and over again in my eyes, nose, jaw, chin. I won, but the white in my right eye had gone blood red, and I was sure I had a concussion. In the car on the way home, I broke into tears. My head was throbbing, my ears were ringing and I ached all over. Could I deal with this kind of pain for the next decade? That was my first moment of doubt.

The second came shortly after, when doctors called me in to discuss the results of an MRI. They showed me my brain scan and pointed to two clusters of white dots called white matter hyperintensities, lesions that only show up in the elderly, those who have degenerative brain diseases and people who’ve had serious head trauma. And on top of the hyperintensities, I had no cartilage left in my knees. The doctors urged me to retire, but I didn’t listen. Fighters take damage; I could keep going.

It wasn’t until months later, when I took a hard kick to the head during training, that I finally asked, How is this worth it? Even with the promise of all the money and fame, I’m in the spotlight for five seconds. Sure, the fans cheer me on, but if I get injured, they’re on to the next fighter. Meanwhile, my whole life could be ruined. I was only 22, and I wanted to be a good daughter, sister, maybe a wife and mother one day. I wanted to do something meaningful with my life.

Sheehan, who retired at 5-1, reports her whole identity was wrapped up with being a fighter, then went on to found Girls Who Fight, and has taught 2,000 students to date.

Sheehan’s story is a stark reminder for MMA fans that behind the HOLY F@$%ING $#!@ moments that define the sport, there is a lot of damage, and it can be permanent.