The Journey Back to the Tatami

I started Aikido at five years old. My parents thought it would be good for discipline. I thought it was magic — the way my sensei could redirect an attack without violence, how stillness could become movement in an instant.

By my teens, I was convinced I had learned everything Aikido had to offer. I was technically proficient, physically capable, and completely missing the point. I walked away from the mat thinking I had mastered something, when I had barely begun to understand it.

The years that followed were a maze of searching. I tried other martial arts, looking for something more "practical." I chased goals that felt important but left me empty. I lost my center — not just physically, but in every way that mattered.

The return wasn't dramatic. No movie moment, no crisis that forced my hand. Just a quiet Tuesday when I found myself outside my old dojo, drawn by the familiar sound of feet on mats and the memory of belonging somewhere.

I sat at the edge of the mat for an hour that first day, just watching. The techniques I remembered were still there, but I saw them differently now. This wasn't about throwing or being thrown. It was about harmony. About finding balance in imbalance. About responding instead of reacting.

When I finally stepped back onto the mat, I realized I was starting over. Not just with Aikido, but with myself. The person who had left years ago wasn't the same person returning. And that was exactly as it should be.

Now I teach, but not to create martial artists. I teach to guide people back to themselves — to their center, their breath, their capacity for presence. Aikido became my path home. Maybe it can be yours too.