Dummy and the Master: What a 13-Year-Old Boy Taught Me About the Mind.

Every Thursday, I get to coach and train a thirteen-year-old boy named “J”. Now “J” is an incredible kid on the spectrum — bright, creative, and full of energy. When he first started coming to the gym, he was quiet—almost timid—moving carefully, saying little, always polite but cautious. Now, when he walks through the door, he’s smiling, laughing, full of jokes. The transformation has been something special to watch.

At first, “J” would wander over to one of the training dummies and start slamming it around for fun. It became a kind of warm-up ritual. I noticed he’d whisper things to the dummy—muttering under his breath while he tossed it across the mat. As we got more comfortable with each other, those whispers turned into words I could hear. One day, I decided to join in.

I changed my voice—made it weird, cartoony, like something out of a kids’ show—and gave the dummy a personality. Suddenly, it wasn’t just a piece of equipment; it was DUMMY. DUMMY became sarcastic, defiant, and funny in that way only a villain can be. “J” cracked up. He started talking back, defending himself, playing along.

That was the start of something unexpected.

What began as simple play opened a doorway into something deeper. The laughter made “J” lighter, more open. It gave him space to express himself without overthinking. He could be in the moment, completely immersed in play. And through that, I started to see how imagination could become a bridge—connecting not just movement and skill, but emotion and mindset.

“J” originally came to me to build confidence, feel safer and more capable. We worked on wrestling, jiu-jitsu, and strength—basic positions, balance, coordination, and grip work. Over time, I noticed he wasn’t just getting stronger physically—he was learning how to regulate himself, how to stay calm under pressure, how to choose his response.

One day, during a ring hang drill, I noticed something. On his first attempt, “J” lasted only about twenty seconds. As he strained, I heard him mutter under his breath again—this time, not to the Dummy, but to himself.

“It burns... I can’t... this is too hard...”

There it was—the same tone, the same defiant negativity as DUMMY. The same voice, just inside now.

I stopped him. I told him that DUMMY, the one he fights in training? That’s the same voice he hears in his head when things get tough. It’s the part of us that doubts, complains, and looks for a way out.

But there’s another voice, too—the Master Voice. That’s the calm one, quiet, the observer. The Master is the part of you that notices DUMMY’s voice, listens to it, and chooses whether to believe it or not.

We all have both.

So we tried again. This time, I told him to speak from the Master. He started saying things like:
“I’m strong.”
“This is easy for me.”
“I can do this.”

And his time doubled—from twenty seconds to forty. Then a minute. Then over a minute and twenty seconds. The only thing that changed was the voice he listened to. It was just as hard as before, nothing changed in that respect but he could now carry the load, he got stronger mentally and then physically.

Since then, the idea of the Dummy and the Master has become part of our training. The Dummy Voice can sound like fear, disgust, self-doubt, confusion—it takes many shapes. The Master Voice is awareness itself. It’s the one that sees everything but doesn’t react; it chooses the direction, the focus, the action.

Now “J” is starting to see it too. He references those voices in conversation, sometimes even jokes about them. He’s taken the idea so much to heart that he’s started creating a comic book—about himself, DUMMY, and the things he’s learning. He’s turning the lesson into art, and that, to me, is real growth.

Every week, I see more of it. I see his confidence growing, his humor shining through, his awareness deepening. He’s learning how to recognize thoughts for what they are—just thoughts. And he’s realizing something many adults never fully grasp:

We can’t control the thoughts that pop into our minds. But we can control which ones we give our energy to. We can choose our attitude, our effort, and our focus. That’s where real power lies.

For me, watching “J” grow has been a reminder that the path to mastery isn’t just discipline—it’s play. It’s imagination. It’s the courage to see your own Dummy and smile at it before you decide what to do next.

Because that’s when you realize:
the Master isn’t the loudest voice in your head—
it’s the one that listens.