My Story

Who am I?

I am Eitel Houedakor, an athlete, a warrior of the mind and body, and a relentless seeker of personal growth. My life has been shaped not by what I have lost, but by what I continue to fight for—my own evolution, my capacity for greatness, and the unwavering belief that my greatest opponent is the version of myself who fears growth.

My Childhood: A Life in Motion

I was born in Lomé, Togo, a city where the rhythm of life seemed to echo the restless energy I carried within me. As a child, I was always moving, my body in constant motion as if I was chasing something unseen, something just beyond my reach. Whether it was climbing the mango trees in our yard, biking endlessly, or playing soccer with my cousins until the sun dipped below the horizon, I found my freedom in movement.

One memory stands out vividly—the afternoons spent playing soccer on my family’s property. I can still hear the sound of my blood pounding in my ears, the rhythmic pace of my feet drumming against the ground, and the feel of the ball rolling under my control. The wind brushed my face as I sprinted, my focus razor-sharp on that round ball, my only goal to send it flying into the net. Those moments of pure, untamed energy weren’t just games; they were expressions of my spirit. The physical world was my playground, my space to test and push my limits, long before I realized how important that connection to my body would become.

Facing Darkness

Everything changed in 2014. A sudden accident took my sight, and with it, the world I had known. The transition was brutal. One moment, I was that unstoppable child racing across the field; the next, I felt trapped within my own body. Losing my vision was more than the loss of sight—it was the shattering of the life I thought was mine. I was forced to confront the stark reality of how fragile life truly is.

In that darkness, I came to a realization: we often believe we have all the time in the world, that the final departure is some distant event far from our present reality. But we don’t know. The clock is always ticking. That voice in our mind that whispers, “Stay safe, stay comfortable,” is the same voice that keeps us from living fully. It was then I understood my true enemy was not my blindness, nor the accident—it was the version of myself clinging to comfort, avoiding the hard fight required to grow. If I wanted to reclaim my life, I needed to confront that enemy head-on.

Rebuilding Through Movement

When I moved to Canada, my father became my guide back to strength. A fitness coach and black belt in judo, he refused to let me stay passive. I remember the day he took me to the park and handed me a rope tied to a post. “Run,” he said, the tension guiding me in a straight line. The rough fibers burned my hands, the ground felt unfamiliar beneath my feet, but as I ran, something within me reawakened. The fire was still there, buried but not extinguished.

Soon after, he introduced me to judo. I can still remember the feel of my first gi—the weight of the thick fabric, the way the belt cinched tightly around my waist, as if preparing me for battle. The mat beneath my feet felt foreign yet inviting, its cool surface ready to absorb every fall and rise. In those early sessions, it wasn’t just my body relearning movement—it was my spirit rising from the ashes.

The Fight Within

Judo was more than a sport; it was a test of will. Every throw, every breakfall, every struggle against an opponent mirrored the internal battle I faced against my own doubts. The art of falling and getting back up became a metaphor for my life. I was learning not just how to fight others but how to conquer the part of me that whispered, “You’ve done enough. Rest. Stop.”

Returning to Competition

By 2015, I had returned to school and was ready to explore competition again. Gym class became a sanctuary where I could test my body, push my limits, and rediscover what it meant to feel powerful. That same year, I entered my first track and field tournament, competing in sprints and long jump. I still remember the moment I crossed the finish line first, the surge of adrenaline reminding me that I was still capable. Victory wasn’t just about medals—it was a personal triumph, a step toward reclaiming my identity.

Swimming followed. I had learned the basics years earlier in Togo, but swimming without sight was an entirely different challenge. At first, it felt impossible. Ten minutes would pass, and I’d barely complete four laps. But something inside me wouldn’t quit. Stroke by stroke, breath by breath, I chipped away at my limits. By the end of my competitive swimming career, I could complete 30 laps in the same time it had once taken me to swim just four. That transformation wasn’t just physical—it was the embodiment of my refusal to surrender.

Judo: My True Calling

In 2021, I joined a judo club with over a decade of history in inclusiveness, led by Sensei Mohammad Soualmia. Sensei Mohammad has a profound philosophy of judo, believing in its power not only as a martial art but as a way of life where everyone, regardless of ability, can thrive. He made me fall in love with the art all over again. His inclusive approach wasn’t just talk—he actively encouraged me, supported my learning, and helped me develop the flexible mindset of a judoka.

Sensei Mohammad taught me that judo, the ‘gentle way,’ is about more than techniques; it’s about balance, adaptability, and resilience. He guided me to trust my senses—to feel the shifts in my opponent’s stance, to listen to the subtle shifts of movement, and to trust my body’s strength. Under his guidance, I didn’t just practice judo—I embodied it.

In 2023, after 3 years of dedicated training under Sensei Mohammad, I competed in a provincial tournament. Among over a thousand judokas, I was the only blind competitor, and I earned a bronze medal in the U21 -81kg category. Shortly after, I was invited to join the Canadian National Paralympic Judo Team, marking a milestone I had once thought impossible.

Beyond the Mat

Stepping onto the mat as a member of the national team felt like the culmination of everything I had fought for—but in reality, it was just the beginning. The battle is far from over. I am training for the 2028 Paralympic Games in Los Angeles, pushing myself daily, not just for medals but to prove to myself that I can keep breaking barriers, both seen and unseen.

And so, I keep fighting. Not against others, but against myself. Against the version of me who wants to settle. And every day I choose to rise, to fight, and to keep moving forward.