I didn’t plan on writing about humility. I was just stretching one morning — badly — and remembered a tea house in Tokyo I used to crawl into as a kid.
And it brought back something I hadn’t thought about in years — the shape of humility.
The best doors aren't grand. They're the ones you have to crawl through, forehead brushing the earth, wondering if you made a mistake wearing your "good" jeans.
I remembered this the other day while fumbling through my warm-up stretches, feeling about as graceful as a folding chair. Somewhere during this stilted stretching routine, the image of a tea house crept into my mind — the one in my grandmother's backyard.
The Crawling-In Entrance
In the middle of the Tokyo suburbs, tucked behind the main house, there was a small Japanese garden.
In the center of it — a tea house.
It wasn’t mine to explore. I wasn’t really allowed inside.
A few times, under my grandmother’s careful eyes, I was permitted to pass through the tiny entrance — a Nijiriguchi, barely two feet high — and step into that quiet, heavy air.
I remember having to duck low, almost crawl, to enter.
You couldn’t barge into a place like that. You had to shrink yourself, physically and otherwise.
Samurai, peasants, merchants — everyone humbled themselves to enter. Status stripped away by architecture.
I read once about a similar tradition among Native American tribes — sweat lodges with narrow doorways, forcing you to stoop low before entering sacred space. Maybe the facts blur across time and translation, but the spirit feels right:
To be cleansed, you first have to bow.
The Ego Is Louder Than the Breath
In martial arts, it's easy to forget this. Skill builds strength. Strength builds confidence. And confidence — if you're not careful — builds an ego so thick it crowds the whole room.
I've seen it. I've been it. That moment when a few crisp punches on the heavy bag start tasting like superiority. When you roll a few beginners in grappling class and start believing your own hype.
Without humility, you stop learning. You stop noticing the openings in your own defense. You stop hearing the corrections your teacher quietly slips between rounds. You trade growth for a quick, sugary high: domination.
And maybe worse, you start seeing your peers as obstacles or stepping stones, not people.
Humility: The Unsung Discipline
A study I stumbled across one sleepless night put it in plain language: humility strengthens self-control. People who score high in humility are better at regulating themselves, staying on course.
It makes sense. Humility isn't weakness. It's clarity. It's the opposite of self-delusion.
“Without humility, you are not teachable.”
That’s what my teacher in Japanese jujutsu once told me. That line has stayed with me longer than any technique.
In Japan, there's a word for it: kenkyo (謙虚). It doesn't just mean acting meek. It’s self-awareness sharpened into respect.
You stay grounded because you know exactly how easy it is to drift into arrogance.
You respect others not out of obligation, but because you recognize your own unfinished edges.
In Budo — the martial path — kenkyo isn't optional. It's survival.
The Dojo and the Mirror
Martial arts have a funny gravitational pull. They attract two kinds of people in droves: those whose egos need constant stroking, and those whose egos are so battered they come looking for armor.
I've seen both. Hell, I've been both.
The dojo becomes a mirror you can't escape. Sometimes it flatters. More often, it shows you exactly where you're clumsy, scared, or half-assing it.
Humility isn't a banner you wave; it's a quiet, constant returning to that mirror.
“You're not wrong,” he'd say after watching me butcher a form, “you're just early.”
That was one of my first instructors. Timing off. Focus off. Not broken, just... not there yet.
He made it safe to be unfinished. He made humility not a punishment, but a permission.
Bow Low, Crawl In, Begin Again
Sometimes I think the hardest belt to earn isn't black. It's white — again.
A white belt turns black through training; a black belt turns white through experience.
To stay a beginner at heart when your body knows better. To crawl through the narrow doorway, forehead to the ground, even after years of sweat and trophies and scars.
Because the truth is, fighting skills will fade.
The trophies will gather dust.
The body will slow.
But humility — real humility — keeps you moving, adapting, breathing through the changes.
In the end, it's the narrow doors that matter most.
The ones you can only pass through if you bow low, crawl in, and leave your self-importance outside, folded neatly on the doorstep.
I still think about that tea house sometimes.
How you had to crouch just to be allowed in.
How even the air inside felt slower, like it didn’t need to prove anything.
That’s what humility feels like, when it’s real.
Not a performance. Not a posture.
Just enough space to see clearly, and be seen, without the armor.
A small door.
But the only one worth walking through — even if you scuff your good jeans along the way.