From the moment the referee’s chant of “Hakki-you oi!” echoed across the clay ring (dohyō, 土俵 ), you could feel the crackle of history meeting the future. This was not the usual sight of towering men in their mawashi belts pushing each other with seismic force under the watchful gaze of the Japan Sumo Association (JSA). It was a group of women — amateur rikishi — taking their place on the edge of a legacy that has, for centuries, marked them as outsiders.
In Japan, sumo is more than a sport; it is a living ritual. As the national sport, it combines athleticism, ceremony and the spiritual traditions of Shintō (神道). The soil of the dohyō, the salt thrown before the match, the mawashi (loincloth) worn by the competitors — all signpost a practice deeply rooted in culture. Professional sumo (known as ōzumo, 大相撲) has long been an exclusively male domain. And that exclusion is precisely what makes the rise of female amateur practitioners in Japan so compelling.
Today, more than 600 women are practicing amateur sumo across Japan. These women are training, climbing podiums at national and international amateur competitions, and quietly rewriting what sumo can be. In high-school clubs, at university dohyōs, in summer training camps — they are showing up. A towering challenge remains: the professional ring still keeps its gate locked to them.
Take the example of Hiyori Kon, an amateur heavyweight who began wrestling at six and later studied gender theory. She won silver medals on the international stage and was listed among the BBC’s 100 Women in 2019 for her advocacy of equal opportunity. Or Airi Hisano — at 27, she balances a day job and wrestling 115 kg, while pushing for a future where sumo becomes an Olympic sport without gender distinctions. Their stories are not just personal triumphs; they signal a turning tide.
It’s worth understanding the walls they face. The professional sumo arena remains defined by customs that trace back centuries. Women are still barred from stepping onto the dohyō under the JSA’s rules, rooted in the notion of purity in Shintō ritual space. In 2018, women providing first aid to a fallen mayor in a ring were ordered to leave — an incident that caused international embarrassment. Yet outside that formal ring, in amateur tournaments, the rules are different: women wear the mawashi over spandex for modesty, the matches are slightly shorter, but the intensity is undiminished.
In one recent camp at Tottori Jōhoku High School, girls from across Japan gathered for week-long training, and participation has more than doubled in recent years — testimony to the growing appeal of the sport. At Keio University Sumo Club in Tokyo, women are now training side-by-side with men, something unthinkable not long ago.
Yet the amateur-only status remains the thorn. The professional “ring for men” is still rightly and wrongfully seen as the summit. To climb it, female wrestlers must navigate not only muscle and technique, but centuries of tradition and the inertia of institutions. Still, for many, the shape of the dream has shifted: it’s no longer simply to become a pro; it’s to change the rules.
Culturally, this is seismic. Sumo’s rituals — the salt, the pounding of feet into the clay, the sacred space of the ring — have long carried the weight of a national psyche. But that same weight now invites scrutiny. If amateur female sumo continues to grow, it offers a new narrative: one where Japan’s national sport becomes more inclusive, more contemporary, more representative. And that has implications far beyond the ring.
In short, the image of a woman in a mawashi, poised on the edge of the dohyō, is no longer a glitch in the system: it is a signal of change. And if the cadence of “Hakki-you oi!” once echoed with one voice, soon it might echo with many. The future of sumo, it seems, is wrestling not only gravity and balance, but history itself.
Ah, my darlings, if there’s a sound that can shake the very bones of patriarchy, it’s the thunderous stomp of a woman on the dohyō (sumo ring). Can you imagine the look on the old men’s faces, clutching their sacred salt and muttering about purity, as a group of determined women in mawashi (loincloth belts) step into their so-called “forbidden” ring? Auntie says: sprinkle your salt elsewhere, boys — these sisters are here to stay.
Let’s be honest. For centuries, Japan’s beloved sumo has been treated like a holy shrine where women are too “impure” to tread. What nonsense! As if centuries of menstruation, childbirth, and unpaid labor haven’t already proven women to be stronger, cleaner, and tougher than any tradition-bound referee in a kimono. It’s 2025, and if you still think women can’t grapple, sweat, and win, you might as well go meditate in a cave with your outdated beliefs.
The rise of female rikishi (wrestlers) is not just about sport — it’s about reclaiming space. These women are not asking for permission. They are taking it. And they’re doing it with beauty, power, and yes, a bit of glorious softness around the edges. Because Auntie will tell you straight: strength doesn’t only come wrapped in six-pack abs and testosterone. It comes in thighs that don’t apologize for their circumference, arms that crush stereotypes as easily as they crush opponents, and hearts that beat with unshakable resolve.
So go, my beautifully chubby sisters — ganbatte! (Do your best!) Push, shove, stomp, and sweat until the world sees that a woman’s body is not something to hide or judge, but something capable of art, grace, and raw power. Every time you bow before a match, you’re not just following ritual; you’re bowing to your own courage. Every time you drive an opponent out of the ring, you’re tossing centuries of sexism right over the edge of the clay.
Sports belong to everyone — all bodies, all genders, all dreams. And when those dreams start shaking the ground of the dohyō, Auntie can’t help but grin. Because that rumble? That’s the sound of history changing shape. Go on, my sumo sisters — stomp harder. Make the earth remember your names.