Turning Joy and Sorrow into Life's Gifts

Shungo Oyama built a distinguished career in the world of mixed martial arts competing against global powerhouses. Since retiring from active competition, he has devoted himself to new arenas, developing a corporate training program ‘Fightness’, and creating paintings, all in pursuit of helping others live happier lives. Kazuhiko Kanno, who did not succumb to the hardship of cervical spine injury from an accident, won Japan's first bronze medal in wheelchair rugby history at the 2016 Rio Paralympics, and continues to relentlessly challenge the limits as a para-cycling athlete. Having known both triumph and trial, the two men discuss the path to victory and how to help others thrive while living one's own life to the fullest.

Mr. Oyama: We see each other quite often, but we've never had an opportunity to talk like this, so I was really looking forward to today. How did we first meet again?

Mr. Kanno: A mutual friend introduced us to each other in 2020. And since it was during the COVID pandemic, we spoke via Zoom.

Mr. Oyama: Ah, that's right. A friend introduced you as “an amazing person who won Japan's first Paralympic bronze medal in wheelchair rugby,” that was how we met.

Mr. Kanno: I was a big fan of PRIDE, the mixed martial arts event where you fought, and watched it all the time. So, when I saw you on the Zoom call, I was thrilled, thinking, “That's Shungo Oyama from PRIDE!” (laughs)

Mr. Oyama: When I first spoke with you on Zoom, you seemed incredibly confident and radiant. I got the impression that you had accepted everything about yourself, even your disability. And I remember thinking how incredible you were.

Mr. Kanno: I'm happy to hear that, but although I was acting cheerful, I was actually going through a very difficult time. After winning the bronze medal at the 2016 Rio Paralympics, I set my sights on gold at the Tokyo 2020 Paralympics and decided to quit my job at the municipal office to dedicate myself entirely to the sport. Hoping to train in a better location, I spent two years studying in the United States. However, in the end, I wasn't selected for the Japanese national team.

What hurt most was that when I looked back, there was no one following me nor cheering me on.

Mr. Oyama: To have no one supporting you must have been extremely hard.

Mr. Kanno: As an athlete, I am no stranger to the reality that I must seize my opportunity to shine, even if it means pushing past others. But when I realized that my words and actions had created my current lonely situation, I felt a deep emptiness. And I started wondering what all my efforts had been for. The anxiety and frustration grew until I became depressed.

It was around that time when I met you on Zoom, and during our conversations, you told me: “No matter how great your achievements are, if no one is there to share your joy, it will feel empty. People find joy only when others are happy for them. So, run for others.”

I remember how my whole body trembled when I heard that, and I still remember the feeling, as if a completely new world opened up before me.

Mr. Oyama: You are not alone in having that experience. During my days fighting, I also went through a period where I only thought about myself, and nothing seemed to go right. However, when I stepped into the ring focused not on myself but on bringing joy to others, I somehow performed better, and the sense of fulfillment when I won was completely different. So, when you were struggling, I shared my story so that you could see the importance of striving hard for others.

Mr. Kanno: And I thank you for that. Your words made me ponder deeply about what it means to run for others, and what I could do to make people happy. I finally came to the conclusion that even if there was no one following me, I still had my family and a few friends who have always supported me. Thus, I decided I would keep pushing myself for their sake, to make them happy.

That’s when I chose to retire from wheelchair rugby and switched to para-cycling, which is bicycle racing for people with disabilities. I set out to test myself against the world once again. And I was able to begin the new chapter because I met you. Your words truly changed my life.

Mr. Oyama: But accepting and putting my words into practice is no easy task. Even though I say it's important to work hard for others, I'm not sure how well I actually lived that way during my active career. In that regard, I envy you. If I had realized my inability to practice what I preached earlier, I might have been able to win more matches (laughs).

Mr. Kanno: On that note, when things get tough during para-cycling practice or competitions, I try to picture the faces of people who are cheering for me. That’s when I feel like I can go a little further, and I should push myself a little harder.

So, with every passing day, I come to a deeper understanding of your words. I've come to feel that this might be the greatest happiness an athlete can know.

Two years ago, I was ranked 13th in the world. Last year I was ranked ninth. After winning the Asian Championships this January, I became number one in the world, though I’m currently ranked fourth. However, I finished ninth at the World Championships in August because I was unable to maintain peak physical condition.

Going forward, I still want to continue pushing myself, climbing the ranks one step forward to aim for the podium. More than anything, I want to become an athlete people can cheer for and say, “Keep going!”

Mr. Kanno: Honestly, it is truly admirable how you’re challenging yourself in new ways even after retiring.

Mr. Oyama: Thank you and it has been a journey. At twenty-six, I entered the world of mixed martial arts and retired from competition in 2014 at the age of forty.

Since then, I've worked on promoting Fightness, a corporate training program that combines martial arts and fitness, where employees hit the mitt and other exercises to improve health and enhance organizational unity. And then in 2020, my wife and I established the You-Do Association to promote social initiatives that connect athletes with children who have disabilities or who live in Children’s Homes.

I started painting around then. However, just as I started, I was diagnosed with a rare disease called amyloidosis.

Last year, while walking with my wife, I suddenly found myself short of breath. It was an unusual episode and heeding my intuition I went to a nearby hospital, which led to hospitalization at a larger one for tests. Finally in April, I learned that I had been diagnosed with a rare disease.

Mr. Kanno: To be struck by such a rare illness so suddenly is disquieting.

Mr. Oyama: It’s a progressive and rare disease that affects the nerves and the heart, causing symptoms such as shortness of breath, numbness, and arrhythmia. And, as of this moment, there is no cure. That said, the late Antonio Inoki, whom I deeply respect, also died from this same illness, so in a way, I feel it's fate. Above all, feeling death so close has made the time I once thought endless seem all the more precious.

Even my days painting, which began as a hobby, has taken on new meaning. After learning about my condition, I was overwhelmed with the desire to leave behind as many works as possible, pieces that could touch people’s hearts in some way. Thus, this hobby took a more solemn turn, and now I’m preparing to hold a solo exhibition in Tokyo this December.

That is why I’ve come to accept this rare disease as a gift that helps me grow, and I'm grateful for it.

Mr. Kanno: My own life also changed in an instant when I suddenly had an accident. No one ever warns you that tomorrow could bring a change that limits your abilities.

Of course, a rare illness and physical impairment are not the same, yet when I found myself living with a disability, I came to understand how unpredictable life truly is. None of us knows what tomorrow will bring. So, I decided to live each day without regret, so that I could say that I did my best every night.

Still, the fact that you embraced such a serious illness as a gift, and feel gratitude for it, makes you truly extraordinary.

Mr. Oyama: Today I wanted to hear your journey again. I understand that you originally set your sights on becoming a professional baseball player.

Mr. Kanno: Yes, indeed. As a child I was completely devoted to baseball and dreamed of going pro one day.

But while playing for a powerhouse high school in Chiba, which I entered on a sports scholarship, I gradually came to the painful realization that I didn't have what it took to reach that level. What struck me even more was realizing that I no longer enjoyed the game. I was playing only as way to live.

Once I understood that, I decided to let baseball go and turned to surfing after graduating. At first, I started to be popular with girls, but once I tried it, I was left feeling free. For the first time in my life, I felt genuine joy in a sport. Before long, I was completely absorbed in surfing, and eventually gained sponsors.

Mr. Oyama: It sounds like you were living a fulfilling life through surfing.

Mr. Kanno: I was, but in 2004, when I was twenty-two years old, everything changed.

I was out enjoying the waters as usual when a wave pulled me under, and I struck my head hard against the ocean floor. The impact left me stunned and immobile, my body floating to the surface face-up. The surfers nearby saw my body, pulled me out of the water, and called an ambulance which took me straight to the hospital

There, the doctor showed me the MRI and said, “The nerves in your cervical spine are severed, but some are still intact. We need to operate immediately to preserve what little remains.”

When I finally opened my eyes after surgery, I found my head and neck constricted in a halo vest. However, my body still wouldn’t move. That’s when my days were spent simply just staring at the ceiling of that hospital room.

Mr. Oyama: So, not even the procedure could return the reins of your body to you.

Mr. Kanno: The doctor told me that I would never walk again, and the nurses put diapers on me. Confronted with that reality, I lost all my confidence and will to live. I wanted to die.

Yet through it all, my mother, who stayed in my hospital room day and night, always laughed and smiled as if nothing was wrong. I couldn’t understand how she could smile when her son was suffering. Then, on the fifth day after my admission, I suddenly woke up in the middle of the night. From the corner of the room where my mother slept, I heard the sound of quiet sobbing. I couldn't turn my head at all, but I knew, my mother who had laughed so brightly by day was crying in the dark.

Mr. Oyama: I have no words.

Mr. Kanno: In that moment, memories with my mother came flooding back—how we used to walk hand in hand when I was little, and during my middle and high school years, when I played baseball, how she woke early every morning to prepare my lunch. I remembered how no matter how late I came home, she always had dinner ready for me. I understood then that she carried herself with a smile because she wanted to keep my spirit from collapsing. I started crying and found myself whispering, “I'm sorry, Mom.”

I spent that whole night pondering how I could spare her any more suffering. And there was only one answer I found. I had to become stronger and live.

Mr. Oyama: Your mother's presence gave you the strength to rise from despair.

Mr. Kanno: Yes, and I later heard that my father, unable to see me in that condition, had even considered dying together with me. Hearing that, I realized all the more the beauty of my mother's life and the depth of her love in believing in her child.

The next morning, determined not to let her grieve, I told the doctor making their rounds, “Please let me start rehabilitation today.” Since only six days had passed since the accident, the doctor brushed me off. But I was so persistent in asking that, they finally conceded, suggesting, “Well, let's try starting by raising the bed.”

At first, I thought how that could possibly count as rehabilitation. I thought they were making fun of me. But when the bed angled just twenty degrees, I fainted. After lying flat for so long, my autonomic nervous system couldn't adjust properly and I had orthostatic hypotension. That was how my rehabilitation began with gradually raising the bed a little higher each day.

Mr. Oyama: That's an incredibly intense start to rehabilitation.

Mr. Kanno: Once nerves are severed due to a cervical spinal injury, lost functions rarely return. What matters is how much you can strengthen the surviving functions. In my case, I was paralyzed from the chest down, but I could move both my hands. It took four months to train them well enough so that I could sit up on my own and get into a wheelchair. It took eleven more months before I could move freely in my wheelchair and handle daily activities like using the toilet.

Mr. Oyama: That just shows how you have incredible endurance.

Mr. Kanno: It was beyond difficult, but I never allowed myself even a moment of resignation. I kept telling myself that I had to grow stronger as soon as possible and be able to live independently. All so that my mother wouldn’t have to shed another tear for me.

Also, the friends I made during rehabilitation were a huge support. I was always with my friends that it became a problem because I wouldn't return to my room (laughs). So, in truth, those first five days were the only days when I considered death. Once I started rehabilitation, life slowly filled with more laughter than pain.

Mr. Oyama: How long after the accident were you able to leave the hospital?

Mr. Kanno: Since I focused on my energy on rehabilitation, I was discharged in 2005, one year after the accident.

Not long after, I happened upon wheelchair rugby. When I went to a nearby store that specialized in welfare vehicles, a man approached in the parking lot and called out, “Have you ever heard about wheelchair rugby?”

He, too, lived with a disability and played the sport. As we talked, we realized we lived close to each other. In fact, I remembered that I had seen him around the neighborhood.

Mr. Oyama: What a remarkable coincidence.

Mr. Kanno: We quickly became friends, and later he took me to try the sport for the first time.

Wheelchair rugby is an intense sport where wheelchairs are crashing into each other. And when I was knocked down, no one came to help, I had to get up on my own. Moreover, once I sat in a competition wheelchair, I was struck by how quickly you can move around the court. That speed was exhilarating, and I thought that maybe this is where I could express myself again. Simply put, I was hooked from day one.

Mr. Oyama: It is good to hear that you were able to find something you could dedicate yourself to.

Mr. Kanno: Yes. And truth be told, after I became stuck in a wheelchair, the folks around me would always be present and concerned. For example, whenever I dropped my phone or something else, my family or others would immediately rush to pick it up, asking “Are you okay?”

Of course, they meant well, but I could pick up what I dropped, and I could open doors by myself. The more people tried to help, the more it reminded me of my disability, as if they were saying it themselves. That was painful. Though I can now genuinely appreciate the kindness of others, back then I couldn’t.

Wheelchair rugby was different. Even if you crash and fall over, you have to get back up on your own. That sense of self-reliance, that freedom, felt wonderful.

Mr. Oyama: I can’t help but feel how much of our experiences overlap after listening to your story.

I was born in Kanagawa Prefecture, and after my father was transferred for work, I grew up in Tochigi from the age of five. I was small, painfully shy, couldn't make friends. Without my mother, I really couldn’t do much, a timid child through and through.

Then one day, I saw Ultraman on TV and yearned to be as strong as him, someone who can inspire others and fill them with courage. That was my very first dream and my origin.

Thus, I told my mother about my dream and asked for permission to learn martial arts. And she let me attend classes at a judo school nearby. I still remember asking, “Can we punch and kick in judo?” and my mother replied, “Yes, of course you can” (laughs). If she hadn't said that, I probably wouldn't have started judo, and I might not be who I am today.

Mr. Kanno: I see how your mother also played a significant role in your life as well.

Mr. Oyama: Without a doubt. From then on, I became immersed in the world of judo. Through elementary, middle, high school, and into university, my days were spent practicing the sport.

In my fourth year of university, I competed in the national championships for the first time and finished second. After graduating, I joined a corporate team and worked hard to be able to compete in the Olympics.

However, in 2000, when I was twenty-five, I also experienced a sudden turn of events. When I went to see the MMA event PRIDE Grand Prix at the Tokyo Dome, my eyes held witness to the ninety-minute death match between Kazushi Sakuraba and Brazil's Royce Gracie. That match was indescribable and my body wouldn't stop shaking.

I was watching from the furthest seats in the venue, but when the announcer shouted, “And the winner is Kazushi Sakuraba!” the entire venue trembled from the crowd’s roar. In that moment, I felt something ignite inside me. And I knew that one day I would step into that PRIDE ring.

Mr. Kanno: To enter into that ring sounds like the birth of a new dream.

Mr. Oyama: Exactly. So with that in mind, I started training, daydreaming all the while how it would feel to fight inside the ring, and my excitement wouldn't stop.

And so, as I continued learning judo, I secretly went to the gym and started to compete in amateur MMA matches. Once I started to collect wins, a professional organization reached out and offered me a chance to compete in an American tournament. I was stunned to say the least.

At that point, two paths suddenly appeared before me. I could continue judo with the corporate team or take the leap and become a pro MMA fighter. Staying meant stability. Turning pro meant stepping into the unknown.

Mr. Kanno: I can relate. I also left my job to become a professional athlete (laughs). But how did you ultimately make your decision?

Mr. Oyama: When I pictured a future where I stayed with the corporate team, I felt a wave of despair. If I took that route, I knew I would never become the hero I've wanted to be since childhood. On the other hand, when I imagined myself as a professional MMA fighter, my heart began to race with excitement. Without hesitation, I chose the path that gave me the most excitement. I handed in my resignation and made my professional debut in an American MMA tournament at the age of twenty-six.

I had informed my mother in advance, but I only told my father after I had left the judo team. He was the complete opposite of me, serious, disciplined, and devoted entirely to studying. I expected disapproval, yet to my surprise, he supported me, telling me I should live my own life. And even now, I am deeply thankful for that.

Mr. Kanno: How did it feel to step inside that professional ring for the first time?

Mr. Oyama: My first fight was against Mike Borg, a 120-kilogram heavyweight fighter. Takahiro Tezuka, who served as my second, instructed, “If your right hand connects, he'll definitely go down.” I had utmost faith in his knowledge when I entered the cage. And just as he said, my right punch connected with Borg’s jaw, and I won by KO in seventeen seconds.

Mr. Kanno: That is an amazing way to start your fighting career.

Mr. Oyama: My first victory as a pro attracted public attention, and in May of 2001, I finally stepped into the ring of PRIDE, the very place I had always dreamed of. And this happened exactly one year after I told myself I would.

However, that was where the struggles began. I lost my first match by TKO in the first round. In my second fight, I was battered and lost by KO, and that loss caused my retina to detach in my right eye. Retinal detachment surgery is done under local anesthesia, so I could hear every word between the doctor and nurses, and I could even see the needle entering my eye. It was terrifying.

But there was no break. After recovering, I returned to the ring, only for Ryan Gracie to break my right arm. I was forced into another rehabilitation period for months, and just when I finally returned again, I lost by KO to Dan Henderson. This time, it was my left eye that had a detached retina. Realizing I had to go through the same ordeal again, I couldn't help but cry.

If I had to summarize my fighting career, I would say it more than just a contest against world-class athletes, it was a constant battle to recover from injuries.

Mr. Kanno: From how you’ve been explaining it, it certainly does not sound like an easy career.

Mr. Oyama: It wasn’t smooth sailing at all, but I think that was for the best. As I mentioned earlier, I was a deeply self-centered person then. I had few friends and genuinely believed, but it was fine as long as I won. When my rivals went to their own fights, I would wish for them to lose. If they started to get the upper hand, I would feel a twisting pain inside, and my legs would shake with the fear that their success could outshine mine.

In retrospect, my self-centeredness came back to me as these injuries. It was as if the heavens were teaching me to change through these ordeals. Ultimately, these trials revealed how many people supported me, and I began stepping into the ring to bring joy to others.

And you know, if I had kept winning from the start, I have no idea what kind of person I would have become. I now believe that the retinal detachment, the broken arm, all of it, were trials from the heavens to change the stubborn person I once was.

Mr. Kanno: I went through something similar as well. Because I had played baseball and surfed before, I was selected for the Japanese national team just one year after I started wheelchair rugby.

At that time, I was convinced that making it to the Paralympics would be easy because I am naturally gifted. But when I approached the sport with that attitude, I was dropped from the national team in 2010.

Mr. Oyama: You became overconfident.

Mr. Kanno: I was still a designated athlete, so I was invited to national training camps, but my motivation was gone. Even so, several trainers took turns visiting me and they gave me massages and talked about future training.

At the start, I found it irritating. But gradually, I began to feel like their presence carried a message: “Come back.” That realization filled me with shame. I decided that I wanted to compete in the next Paralympics, and to do that, I had to quit smoking and live as a real athlete.

Mr. Oyama: Ah, that was when your awareness as an athlete began to awaken.

Mr. Kanno: Still, I couldn't quite map out the details that would lead me to the Paralympics. And that’s when I met the sports psychologist, Professor Yasukazu Hashiguchi. He posed a simple question: “What is your dream?” I answered, “To compete in the Paralympics.” But his next question stopped me cold: “Will that dream come true?” I had no answer.

Mr. Oyama: You couldn't answer immediately?

Mr. Kanno: No. But in that silence, Professor Hashiguchi shared a perspective that struck me deeply.

“As long as it remains only a dream, it will never come true. The pivotal question is this: ‘Can you turn that dream into a goal?’ If you can, you can work backward from it to create a concrete plan. The London Paralympics is two years away. So where do you need to be one year from now? What must you achieve in three months? In one month? In one week? Let's work backwards from the goal to identify what needs to be done. If you do that, you'll move closer to your goal.”

Mr. Oyama: That idea of thinking and acting by working backwards from your goal is such an essential mindset.

Mr. Kanno: It completely changed my paradigm. Suddenly, I could see with clarity what I needed to do, what my strengths were, and what I was lacking. For example, I was a bit overweight at the time, so my first goal was to lose weight. Then, to further capitalize on my natural speed, I made sure to move at least ten kilometers every day.

Through steady and cumulative effort, I earned my place back on the Japanese national team in 2011. The following year, I achieved my dream and goal by competing in the London Paralympics. It’s such a simple truth. When your mindset changes, your actions change. And when your actions change, results follow. My Paralympic journey taught me just how powerful that transformation can be.

Mr. Kanno: However, while my dream of competing in the Paralympics came true, we finished fourth, just short of the podium. Though initially, being ranked fourth in the world felt like an achievement that I could be satisfied with.

Mr. Oyama: It is! Being fourth in the world is a tremendous accomplishment.

Mr. Kanno: It felt that way, at first. But when I returned from London to Narita Airport, that feeling vanished. My family and friends were waiting for me in the lobby, and I was eager to see them. Just as I moved towards the exit, officials stopped me and said, “Medalists go first.”

Looking toward the exit, I saw the medalists enveloped by the camera flashes of the media and the cheers from fans. A few minutes later, the rest of us without medals were guided to the exit through what felt like a side path, as if we were meant to go unnoticed.

I was furious. It was frustrating to be treated so indifferently, even though we were the fourth best in the world. But at the same time, a new dream ignited in me. I decided to win a medal at the next Paralympics in Rio and stand among those that are celebrated.

Mr. Oyama: It is impressive that you didn’t give up and instead channeled that experience into a new goal.

Mr. Kanno: For the next four years leading up to the Rio Paralympics, I practiced relentlessly, even experiencing major injuries four times, including fractures. But the effort paid off. In Rio, we finally won bronze and fulfilled another dream.

The match for bronze was against Canada, and the moment the final buzzer sounded, my team members and staff came flooding onto the court. We embraced, completely overwhelmed with joy. In that instance, I felt an indescribable joy. I was grateful to have persevered, and simply profoundly grateful to be alive.

Mr. Oyama: I can almost see the scene unfolding before my eyes.

Mr. Kanno: During the medal ceremony, I was still overwhelmed with emotion. It was only when I felt the weight of the bronze medal placed around my neck that my senses returned. I looked around and saw the American team, who had won silver, crying while the Australian gold medalists were proudly singing their national anthem. Watching them, I felt a new dream crystallize in my mind. I thought how wonderful it would be to stand at the top of the podium at the Tokyo 2020 Paralympics and sing our national anthem, Kimigayo.

However, as I shared near the beginning of our talk, even despite my efforts including training abroad in the United States, I wasn't able to compete in the Tokyo 2020 Paralympics. At that time, I was still immature, focused only on myself.

Also, it was only after meeting you that I realized that no matter how hard you work, people will keep their distance from someone who exudes a sense of tragedy, who always has an air of despair around them.

Looking back, I was that person. I was so desperately fixated on making it to the Paralympics. I was training until my hands were raw and bloody, constantly radiating my suffering. That heaviness was probably another reason why people didn't follow me. Now I try to always smile. I have learned that folks are drawn to those who move forward with hope and hard work.

Mr. Kanno: Was there a match that was a definitive turning point for you as a fighter?

Mr. Oyama: There was. After losing continuously in the PRIDE ring, I made the decision to leave the group in 2004 when I was thirty. I began competing with newly established MMA organizations like HERO'S.

At that time, Masanao Yamaya, who helped me with my mental toughness training, asked me, “If we put aside all your past achievements for the time being, then tell me, what excites you most right now?”

Under that supposition, I gave him my answer. I wanted to beat Peter Aerts, a superstar in the fighting world, within one minute on New Year's Eve when all of Japan is watching. I believe that could change my life. Yamaya replied, “Let's make that happen.”

Ordinarily, to have a match like that would be impossible for me. Yet, when Yamaya accepted my vision without a hint of doubt, it was as if gasoline had been poured over my head. Every cell in my body burst into flames, and from that day forward, I trained feverishly while vividly imagining the moment I would defeat Peter Aerts.

Mr. Kanno: Your heart caught fire.

Mr. Oyama: It did for sure. As the day of the match approached, I learned that Aerts' opponent had been decided, and it was not me. Still, a part of me believed something would change, so I went to training camp in Okinawa and continued practicing.

Then, just nine days before the match, as I returned from Okinawa, my phone rang. When I answered, one of the organizers said, “Peter Aerts' opponent has withdrawn. We're looking for someone who can fight him.”

Mr. Kanno: And now your thoughts had become reality.

Mr. Oyama: Moreover, on the day of the match, everything unfolded exactly as I had described to Yamaya and visualized in my mind. I threw a roundhouse kick the moment the opening bell sounded to catch him off guard, took the fight to the ground, locked him in a leg hold, and won within thirty seconds.

After retiring, I realized that everyone remembers me as “Oyama who defeated Peter Aerts in thirty seconds.” That one fight truly altered my entire life.

Mr. Kanno: Yours is a powerful lesson. It teaches us that miracles can only be created by those who strongly believe in making them happen.

And what’s more, while you had a clear dream in mind, you didn't dwell on what was outside your control, such as whether you would fight on New Year's Eve. Instead, you thoroughly focused on what was within your reach, like your training camp in Okinawa. That mindset is what brought about the miracle.

Mr. Oyama: Another major turning point arrived in 2012 when I entered a tournament for the Korean MMA organization ROAD FC. I had just gotten married but didn't have the money to buy a wedding ring. Winning that tournament and its prize money was the only way I could give one to my wife.

However, it was a tough fight right from the start. I was facing the formidable Denis Kang, and early in the fight, he landed a solid shot to my jaw that sent me to the mat. He descended with a flurry of punches, and when I thought it was over, my wife's face suddenly flashed before my eyes. Instantly, power surged through my entire body, and before I knew it, I had reversed our positions and was pummeling him until I won by knockout.

Riding that momentum, I won every subsequent match and became the tournament champion. Much like the fight with Peter Aerts, what I vividly envisioned in my heart manifested in reality. And when one fights for the sake of others, one can tap into a strength.

Mr. Kanno: Inspiring words.

Mr. Oyama: On the other hand, partly because I often fought against larger overseas fighters, I noticed a change in my body. Even a glancing punch could now make me lose consciousness or fall.

It was as if my body was whispering, “That's enough.” So, I decided to retire in 2014. For my last match, I wanted a head-to-head slugfest true to my style, and my opponent Yuji Sakuragi responded to that wish. Just as I had envisioned, we had a brutal slugging match until my longtime friend since middle school, serving my corner man, threw in the towel. There were many who came to watch my retirement fight, and I felt like I had given everything. My career had come full circle, and I was left with no regrets.

Mr. Kanno: I've shed many tears, some from joy, others from sorrow. Yet I’ve come to believe that life needs both positive and negative experiences. When we face darker moments, we gain a quiet space to reflect on ourselves and our circumstances, to learn, and to grow.

Also, when things don't go well, as was the case with me, the cause often lies within. Rather than blaming external factors, we need to sincerely face ourselves, work to improve, and focus on what we can control. I think that's the key to living a better life.

Mr. Oyama: I completely agree.

Mr. Kanno: Also, I recall a networking event you once hosted. In front of 900 participants, you shared, “I used to be someone who couldn't make friends at all. But now I have what I wanted most in front of me, friends! ” Hearing your declaration moved me deeply. You had spent a life fighting to make people happy, and ultimately, you became the happiest one of all. What we give to others always returns to us many times over. And the path of making others happy is the path to our own happiness.

There was another event that you organized, one held to encourage me before the season opening. About a hundred people gathered, and I was moved to tears. I thought how wonderful it would be if I could make everyone happy and share those tears of joy together, and how glad I was that I didn't die in that accident and lived to see that day.

I want to give my all to para-cycling as I carry your words, “Run for others,” in my heart. It is how I can show gratitude to those who support me and to share tears of joy together with them.

Mr. Oyama: If you make bringing joy to others the foundation of your life, everything will begin to move in the right direction. I believe that anyone can live a happy life in this manner. I've lived by that belief, and now I'm truly happy, surrounded by many friends and treasures.

When I was competing, I often signed autographs with the phrase, “Turn everything into strength.” Now, I find that “Turn everything into a gift,” better reflects who I am. Even when I received the diagnosis of an incurable disease, what many would see as life’s greatest hardship, I was able to genuinely accept it as a gift and feel grateful. In that moment, I realized that all the conflicts, the pain, and the tears I had experienced had become a part of me, part of my flesh and blood. For the first time, I felt I could authentically praise myself.

I want to live the rest of my life to the fullest in that manner and leave behind as many paintings as possible that will nourish people’s hearts. If someone who is suffering someday remembers me and say, “There was a man named Oyama who said everything is a gift. All right, I'll try my best too!” and they find the hope to live, then I would be satisfied.