Years of Searching: Lost and Looking Elsewhere

I convinced myself I had outgrown Aikido.

At nineteen, with a brown belt around my waist and techniques flowing through my muscle memory like second nature, I decided I needed something more "real." More practical. More aggressive.

I was wrong about a lot of things back then.

The Departure

The decision to leave wasn't dramatic. There was no final class, no ceremony, no formal goodbye. I simply stopped showing up. Started telling myself that Aikido was too philosophical, too gentle, too removed from the "real world" of conflict and competition.

I wanted to learn to fight. Really fight. Not this flowing, harmonious dance that seemed so detached from actual confrontation. I wanted techniques that would work in a bar fight, in a street altercation, in situations where there was no tatami mat and no bowing and no respect for ancient Japanese principles.

I was young and certain and completely missing the point.

Boxing Gyms and Bruised Egos

My first stop was a boxing gym downtown. Concrete floors, heavy bags, the smell of sweat and ambition. Here, I thought, was real training. Here was where I'd learn what actual fighting looked like.

I learned a lot in that gym. I learned that I had good reflexes but terrible footwork. I learned that my Aikido-trained body wanted to blend and redirect, while boxing demanded that I stand my ground and exchange blows. I learned that getting punched in the face hurts, and that some people genuinely enjoy hurting others.

I also learned that aggression without center is just flailing. That force without foundation is just noise. But I wasn't ready to learn those lessons yet.

The Grappling Years

From boxing, I moved to Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu. The chess-like strategy appealed to me — the way a smaller person could defeat a larger one through leverage and technique rather than brute strength. It reminded me of something I'd learned before, though I couldn't quite place what.

I threw myself into grappling with the same intensity I'd once brought to Aikido. I learned about position before submission, about the importance of breath control under pressure, about how to remain calm when someone is trying to choke you unconscious.

The similarities to Aikido were everywhere, but I was too proud to admit it. I told myself this was different. More practical. More real.

Mixed Messages

Eventually, I found myself in MMA gyms, trying to integrate striking and grappling into a complete fighting system. The training was intense, the practitioners dedicated, the techniques undeniably effective.

But something was eating at me. The more "complete" my fighting education became, the more incomplete I felt as a person. I was learning to dominate, to impose my will, to see every interaction as a potential conflict to be won.

I was becoming harder. Not stronger — harder. And hardness, I was beginning to understand, is different from strength.

The Questions I Wasn't Asking

All those years, I thought I was searching for better techniques, more effective methods, superior strategies. But the questions I was trying to answer through fighting weren't really about fighting at all.

I was asking: How do I handle conflict? How do I respond to aggression? How do I maintain my center when everything around me is chaotic? How do I stay true to myself when others are trying to impose their will on me?

These aren't questions that can be answered with a perfectly executed right cross or a flawlessly applied rear naked choke. These are questions about character, about presence, about the kind of person you choose to be when pressure reveals who you really are.

The Loneliness of Competition

The competitive martial arts world taught me about winning and losing, about rankings and titles, about measuring myself against others. But it also taught me about isolation.

When everything is about competition, connection becomes secondary. Your training partners are potential opponents. Your improvements come at the expense of others. Your success is measured by how many people you can defeat rather than how many people you can help.

I started to miss the collaborative spirit of Aikido training, where your partner's attack was a gift that allowed you to practice, and your technique was a service that allowed them to learn ukemi. I missed the sense that we were all working together toward something larger than individual achievement.

The Emptiness of Victory

I won some fights. Lost others. Earned some belts, some recognition, some respect in circles that valued those things. But with each victory, I felt more empty rather than more complete.

Winning a fight proved I could impose my will on another person. But it didn't prove I was worthy of respect. It didn't prove I was a good man. It didn't prove I understood anything important about conflict or resolution or what it means to be truly strong.

What I Was Really Searching For

Looking back now, I can see that all those years of searching were really about trying to find my way back to something I had lost. But I couldn't find it in other arts because it wasn't in other arts. It was in me, waiting for me to remember.

I was searching for a way to be powerful without being harmful. To be strong without being hard. To be effective without being aggressive. To handle conflict in a way that honored both myself and my opponent.

These weren't things I needed to learn somewhere else. They were things I had been learning all along, before I convinced myself I needed something more "practical."

The Gift of Getting Lost

Those years weren't wasted, though they felt like it at the time. They taught me what I valued by showing me what I didn't value. They helped me understand what Aikido had given me by experiencing what it felt like to live without it.

They also taught me humility. By the time I found my way back to the mat, I was no longer the arrogant teenager who thought he had mastered something. I was a confused young man who finally understood that mastery isn't a destination — it's a way of approaching the journey.

The Return Path

The way back wasn't dramatic either. No lightning bolt of realization, no sudden conversion. Just a gradual understanding that what I had been searching for in all those other places was something I had abandoned rather than something I had never found.

Sometimes you have to leave home to understand what home means. Sometimes you have to lose something to appreciate what you had. Sometimes you have to search the world to discover that what you're looking for was with you all along.

The years of searching weren't a detour from my path. They were part of my path. They made me a richer student when I finally returned, because I understood why I was there.

Not because I couldn't find anything better, but because I had finally learned to recognize what true strength looks like.