The Quiet Discipline of Returning
This isn’t an essay about failure. It’s about rhythm. The rhythm of doubt. Of returning. Of continuing when everything in you says stop. After more than four decades of martial arts, I've come to realize that quitting isn’t always loud... it’s often a whisper. But so is coming back. And maybe that's the whole point.
I've quit martial arts more days than I can count.
Not in some dramatic way. No shouting. No torn gi thrown in the trash.
More like a quiet thought:
Maybe I'm done.
And yet, the next day, I tie the belt.
Step onto the mat.
Breathe. Bow. Begin again.
The Rhythm of Quitting
Most people think quitting is a decision.
But often, it's just a pattern.
There are days I finish class and wonder if I’ve got anything left to give. Days when my body protests more than it performs. Days when a student asks a question I’ve answered a hundred times, and I have to work harder than usual not to let the fatigue show.
Sometimes I walk off the floor and feel empty.
Not broken. Just unsure.
It sneaks up on you. That question:
What’s the point anymore?
And it’s not always triggered by failure. Sometimes it shows up right after success. A seminar goes well, someone gets promoted, and still, that voice:
So what?
It’s not depression, exactly. More like the shadow that shows up when the novelty wears off. When the excitement fades and you're left with something that feels ordinary—even if it’s important.
Familiarity doesn’t make it meaningless, but it does make it harder to feel.
But that familiarity brings its own kind of weight.
It just asks more from you.
The One Time I Really Quit
I did quit once.
Not the fake kind. Not the "I'll take a break" version.
I mean I actually told my sensei I was done type of quit.
Packed my gear. Walked away.
It felt decisive. Clean. Like closing a door.
But the quiet that came after didn’t feel like relief.
It felt like something was missing.
Disorientation.
Like a compass needle that wouldn't stop spinning.
I didn't miss the techniques. Or the sparring. Or the structure.
I missed the version of myself that lived inside the repetition.
The one I built through sweat and ritual. The one who showed up even when I didn't want to.
And that's the truth I didn't understand until I stepped away:
You can walk from the art, but it doesn't always walk from you.
The Anchor
I first stepped onto a dojo mat over 45 years ago.
That's long enough to forget why you started. I haven’t.
And long enough to question what you've become.
It started as something simple. A way to move. To belong. To feel strong.
To carve out a sense of self in a world that didn’t always offer one.
Over time, it became something harder to name.
Not just habit. Not just structure.
Something I depended on, even when I didn’t want to admit it.
Like an addict and the thing that both ruins and saves them... except martial arts didn’t ruin me.
It held me steady when everything else was up for grabs.
The countless moves. The people who left.
The ways my body aged and adapted.
Through all of it, the mat was still there.
Same space. Same punches and kicks. Same breath before the next move.
It sounds dramatic, I know. But honestly, it’s just what kept me upright.
Even when I wanted to lie down.
Like sleep. You don’t think much about it until you’re running on none.
Then everything gets harder. Slower. You notice the cost in every little thing.
The Gung-Ho Crowd and the Ghosts
The ones who quit fast usually start loud.
They dive in with intensity. Buy all the gear first. Ask about belt rankings before they've learned to fall properly. Post about their training like they're documenting some heroic journey. Talk about discipline and warrior spirit and what this is going to do for their life.
They burn bright for a few weeks. Train hard. Talk legacy.
Then a setback hits.
They miss a class. Get injured. Life pulls them sideways.
And they disappear.
Sometimes they come back after a few months, full of apologies and renewed enthusiasm. Then they leave again. Come back. Leave.
The cycle repeats until it doesn't, and you realize you haven't seen them in forever.
Some people quit before they ever begin.
They email. They call. They ask thoughtful questions about training.
They sound eager, even urgent. We set a day. A time.
Then nothing.
No message. No cancellation. Just silence.
On occasion, there's an excuse... and they ask if they can reschedule. I get that things come up. But then on the day of the rescheduled appointment, they often will email or text again. Something came up and can they reschedule... and then, crickets.
At first, I took it personally. Wondered what I'd said wrong.
But over the years, I've realized, it's not about me.
It’s a pattern.
I've seen it with job interviews too. People ghost an employer the same way.
Not because they're careless, but because commitment has started to feel too big. Too final. Too real.
It’s safer, in a strange way, to want something than to start it.
Wanting is clean. Beginning is messy.
And quitting? It's easier when you haven't yet stepped in the door.
But that kind of quitting becomes a habit. A loop.
You run it often enough and eventually, you start ghosting yourself.
Your own life. Your own growth.
The ones who stay are different from both groups.
Quieter. They don't talk much about what they're learning.
They just show up. Week after week. Year after year.
They improve slowly, almost imperceptibly, like watching a tree grow.
They're the ones who understand something the gung ho crowd and the ghosts don't:
This isn't about becoming a warrior. It's about becoming yourself, only more so.
And that's messier work than any movie made it seem.
There's no shame in any of these cycles, though.
We all have to break a few times before we know what we're really made of.
The Practice is the Point
I still think about quitting.
Not every day. But often enough that it no longer scares me.
Because now I know the wanting to quit is part of the practice.
It's part of the long arc of anything worth doing.
My sensei used to tell me that the days when you least want to step onto the mat are exactly the days that matter most.
Not because they're easier. They're not.
But because they teach you something the eager days can't.
There's no dramatic moment when it clicks. No montage set to inspiring music.
Just the accumulation of small choices. To show up when you don't feel like it, to practice when no one's watching, to keep going when the novelty has worn thin and all that's left is the work.
That simple wisdom became more than training advice.
It became a compass for everything worth doing.
The book you don't want to write. The conversation you're avoiding.
The relationship that needs tending.
Discipline isn't always about pushing harder.
Sometimes it's just about returning.
Even when it's boring. Even when it hurts.
Even when you can't articulate why.
The mat has taught me a lot of things, but maybe the simplest lesson is this:
Show up. Even badly. Especially badly. But show up.
You can always walk out later.
But you won't know what could have been unless you begin.
I've come to believe that clarity is overrated.
We want answers. Purposes. Endpoints.
But life rarely delivers those on time.
Sometimes all we get is the next step.
The breath.
The bow.
The beginning again.
Maybe that's what four decades teaches you. The difference between feeling like quitting and actually quitting. The space between the thought and the action, where most of life actually happens.
Still Here
I still don't know what I'm doing most days.
But I show up.
The mat is never the same twice.
Neither am I.
And maybe that's the point.
Not mastery. Not meaning.
Just the quiet art of not quitting for one more day.
I've quit martial arts more days than I can count.
But I keep coming back. Maybe that’s what practice really means.