Black Belt (2nd-Degree) | Assistant Sensei

My journey in Taekwondo was far from easy. I struggled and failed many belt exams due to a lack of consistent practice, often feeling the sting of disappointment and self doubt. Yet, I kept at it, growing more determined with each attempt. My failures forced me to reevaluate my approach and fueled my resolve each time I fell short, I returned with greater discipline and renewed commitment to my training. Ultimately, my perseverance paid off as I earned my black belt through trial and error, proving to myself that mastery comes not from perfection, but from resilience.

For most of my life, I have been involved in martial arts, ever since my middle school offered it as an alternative option to P.E. Admittedly, it started as a way to avoid the mile-running and changing in a locker room aspects of regular gym class, but learning about different styles and techniques developed and passed down as not only just self-defense, but as an art form, gave me a renewed sense of enjoyment in the sport. Practicing the flow of these moves and the details of every stance, the foot placement of every kick, and the distribution of weight needed on each leg gave me a better idea of how to apply discipline and use the strength I had. Learning alongside peers who I shared much in common with respect for the sport also made it easier to be able to grow and become better at being a martial artist.

Once I graduated middle school, I attended a local dojo in my neighborhood and spent much of my after-school time there. Without the benefit of a class period dedicated towards practicing, I had to learn how to practice and apply passion when it seems as if there is no time for it.

I eventually, through the trials and tribulations, made it to black belt, one of my proudest accomplishments. The black fabric hanging around my waist felt as if it signified not only being a master in martial arts, but also time management, and finding what you enjoy.

The next step, for me, was to test my abilities against others of my skill level. I wanted to know if I could match other black belts in skills, so I signed up for a tournament. I was very antsy leading up to it, doing every part of my form in a panic, pretend sparring my parents. Eventually, when I walked into the ring, I was relieved to find martial artists my age. We all talked for a bit before it officially went underway, and I found out we all had a lot in common and became easy friends. It gave a bit of relief but not much solace in my abilities to win. Surprisingly, though, for me, I managed to do well in the first round, which was a scripted routine of moves that both contestants are required to do, and whoever executes it better wins, almost like a dance. I managed to hit all my moves and land myself into silver, a very satisfying placement for me.

However, the event I was most worried about, sparring, was next. Suddenly, the people in charge of the tournament took me to another ring as there were too many people in the one I was in. Very quickly I was surrounded by people much older and taller than me. My mind was so frazzled by the change that I felt like I had been knocked out already, but I pushed through and drudged my feet to the ring to face off against the 6’4, 40-year-old, 3rd degree black belt. The match started, and I quickly decided on an aggressive approach. Big mistake. I rushed in and caught a kick to my stomach. I lost the point, but any hit where I was still standing was a win for me. I realized I couldn’t let fear of this guy prevent me from winning, so I kept approaching, and I kept getting kicked. Every time. I tried new angles, ducking, blocking. Nothing worked. Eventually, I got sloppy and caught a kick straight to my ribs. I was breathing heavily, and I couldn’t move, and I wondered if being scared was my mind trying to tell me something I should have listened to. Thankfully, they found someone else my age to fight for the next few matches. After the brutal beating I had just endured, for some reason, my confidence was higher. I felt like after that fight, what more could possibly happen that’s more embarrassing and painful?

With that mindset, I managed to win my next few matches and win silver. That tournament taught me that there’s a whole world of like-minded individuals with similar experiences, and that the challenges you face often seem scarier before you actually confront them. Before that tournament, I was a nervous wreck, but I left with some shiny silverware, new friends, and only one bruised rib (win!).