Why I Came Back to Aikido
There wasn't a magic moment. No sudden epiphany.
Just a quiet pause in a noisy day… and the familiar smell of the mat.
I came back to the dojo after years of chaos — clubs, other training styles, and soul-searching. I sat down at the edge of the mat and felt like I belonged.
In this first post, I want to share why I returned to Aikido, what it truly means to me, and why I believe it's more relevant than ever.
Maybe this is your path too — or maybe just a place to stop and breathe differently.
The Beginning
I started Aikido when I was five. My parents thought it would be good for discipline — they weren't wrong, but they had no idea what they were setting in motion.
I remember my first sensei, the way he moved like water around attacks that would have knocked me over. The dojo smelled like old wood and effort, and I felt safe there in a way I didn't understand at the time.
For years, Aikido was my world. I learned to fall, to breathe, to find my center. I thought I was learning to defend myself, but really I was learning to be present. To listen. To move with intention rather than reaction.
The Leaving
Somewhere in my teens, I convinced myself I had learned everything Aikido had to offer. I could execute the techniques. I could take ukemi without thinking. I felt like I'd mastered something.
This is the arrogance of youth — thinking technique is the same as understanding. Thinking that because you can perform the movements, you've grasped the meaning.
I left the dojo with a sense of completion that I now recognize as barely having begun.
The Searching
The years that followed were restless. I tried other martial arts, looking for something more "practical." I wanted to learn to fight, to compete, to prove something to myself and the world.
Boxing taught me about aggression and timing. Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu showed me the ground game. Mixed martial arts promised to teach me everything.
But something was always missing. I was learning to impose my will, to dominate, to win. These weren't bad things, but they weren't feeding the part of me that had been nourished in the dojo all those years ago.
I was moving through life the same way I was training — with force, with resistance, meeting energy head-on instead of redirecting it.
The Return
I don't remember what brought me to the dojo that Tuesday evening. I was walking past and heard the familiar sounds — the slap of feet on mats, the exhale of breath during technique, the quiet corrections from sensei.
I stood in the doorway for a long time, just watching. The techniques were the same ones I remembered, but I was seeing them with different eyes. This wasn't about defeating an opponent. This was about harmony. About finding balance in imbalance.
I sat down at the edge of the mat, and for the first time in years, I felt my center.
What I Found
Aikido hadn't changed. I had.
Where I once saw simple techniques, I now saw principles for living. The idea of blending with an attack rather than meeting it with force. The importance of maintaining your center while everything around you is in motion. The power of presence over aggression.
These weren't just concepts for the dojo. They were tools for life.
I realized that all those years of searching, I'd been looking for ways to be stronger, faster, more effective. But what I actually needed was to learn how to be more present, more centered, more intentional.
Why It Matters Now
We live in a world of constant reaction. Social media arguments, road rage, workplace stress — we're always meeting force with force, escalating instead of de-escalating.
Aikido teaches a different way. Not passive, not weak, but responsive. Aware. Centered.
When someone attacks you — physically, verbally, emotionally — you don't have to meet that energy with the same energy. You can redirect it. You can maintain your center while they lose theirs.
This isn't about being a pushover. It's about being unshakeable.
The Practice Continues
I'm back on the mat now, but I'm not the same person who left. I'm a student again, and I'm grateful for that. Every time I train, I discover something new — not just about the techniques, but about myself.
Aikido taught me that mastery isn't a destination. It's a way of moving through the world. With presence. With intention. With the knowledge that you don't have to fight everything that comes your way.
You can breathe. You can center. You can respond from a place of strength rather than react from a place of fear.
Maybe that's why I came back. Not to learn new techniques, but to remember who I am when I'm truly centered.
And maybe that's why I teach now — to help others find their way back to themselves, one breath at a time.
If this resonates with you, I'd love to hear about your own journey — whether with Aikido, another practice, or just life itself. Sometimes the path back to ourselves is the most important journey we can take.