How martial arts taught me to keep practicing; through life, not just in it.
What does it mean to keep training, even when you're nowhere near the dojo? In this essay, I reflect on how everyday moments: frustration in traffic, creative blocks, tense conversations, can become part of the practice.
Because sometimes, the real work isn't found in perfect technique… but in how we carry ourselves when no one’s watching.
Thursday afternoon in LA. Cars stacked like dominoes. Everyone’s in a hurry to get nowhere.
And I’m in a hurry to get to the dojo to teach a class. I’m running late.
And it’s gridlocked.
People cutting me off left and right. Irritation and frustration rising.
The voice of my old teacher saying, “If you’re on time, you’re late,” echoes in my mind as yet another person nearly crashes into me while staring at their phone.
It almost puts me over the edge...
But then I remember my Sensei’s words:
“The first thing lost in anger is balance.”
I breathe and let it go.
I’m still training.
The Dojo is Everywhere
That’s the thing about this path, learning to bow to the moment instead of trying to control it.
It’s not just about drills or sparring. It’s about how I respond when life cuts me off in traffic...
...or when the Wi-Fi cuts out mid-upload and I’m already behind...
...or when I’ve recorded the same section ten different ways and none of them feel right.
That’s all part of the training too.
I first heard the phrase Kyūdō Mugen (究道無限) years ago, though I probably didn’t understand it then.
It translates loosely as “the path of learning, of training, has no end.”
But that kind of thing just sounds poetic when you're young.
Like a fortune cookie from your favorite Chinese restaurant.
Back then, I thought the “path” meant martial arts.
Katas. Sparring rounds. Getting better at technique.
And in a way, it does.
But I figured out what it really meant the hard way... during a photo shoot last Tuesday.
Working with a model who just wasn’t getting the direction I was giving.
Everyone watching. Energy in the room getting tense.
I could feel that familiar heat rising in my chest. The same one I get when someone cuts me off in traffic.
But then something clicked.
This was it. This was the dojo.
Not the mats or the mirrors or the formal bows.
This photography studio floor.
This moment where I could either lose it or breathe.
Where I could practice what I’ve been drilling for years. Finding center when everything’s off balance.
The dojo isn’t a place. It’s a presence.
It’s in the way you tie your belt. The way you bow.
The way you breathe when someone’s testing your patience.
The real training ground?
It’s the studio floor.
The folder full of projects you haven’t finished yet.
The space between a triggering comment and your reaction.
You’re still training when you're folding laundry.
When you're apologizing to someone you care about.
Kyūdō Mugen doesn’t care whether you’re in uniform or not.
The path shows up wherever you are.
No Finish Line
We live in a culture obsessed with speed.
Apps that track every calorie.
Productivity tools that turn your life into a checklist.
Even training gets swallowed into that mindset—quick fixes, weekend certifications, five-minute solutions to problems that took decades to create.
But Kyūdō Mugen doesn’t work like that.
It’s not glamorous. Doesn’t trend.
The modern world promises mastery in 90 days.
This path promises only one thing:
You’ll walk it for the rest of your life.
When I was younger, I thought mastery would feel like confidence. Like power.
But more often, it feels like coming back to the basics… again and again.
Adjusting your stance.
Quieting your ego.
Trying to stay composed after getting tagged hard, Again, by someone who's supposed to be controlled.
I remember my Sensei once said:
“When the temper rises, the skill drops.”
I didn’t get it then.
But now I see: emotion hijacks precision.
In training. In arguments. In life.
So maybe this path isn’t about a destination.
It’s about showing up.
Calming the breath.
Doing the thing.
Over and over, without needing to be finished.
Because real practice doesn’t end.
Beginning Again
Even on the days when I feel like I didn’t accomplish much - no clear milestone, no breakthrough - I ask myself:
Did I show up with integrity?
Did I try to be a little more aware?
Did I breathe through the frustration instead of feeding it?
And if the answer is no? That's okay, too. I get to begin again tomorrow. That’s part of the path.
It doesn’t always feel like progress. But it is.
That reset is quiet work, too.
I train, study, and grow every day.
Trying my best to set an example for my children and my students, with the idea that it’s not about being perfect.
It’s about staying in practice.
Being mindful. Present.
In all things. Not just martial arts. But maybe more importantly, in life.
Tomorrow I’ll wake up and tie my belt again.
Head to the dojo. The photography studio. The freeway.
All the same training ground, really.
Still learning to bow to the moment instead of fighting it.
Still walking the path.
Not to finish it.
Just to keep walking.