It’s Not Supposed to Be Easy

Before my belt test in Karate, I was watching one of the younger kids in my class — maybe eight years old, tiny but fierce — bouncing on his toes with this unfiltered joy. He looked up at me and said, “I know I’m ready. And I’m so proud of myself.”

And he meant it. No hesitation. No shrinking. No internal debate about whether he had the right to feel proud.

Kids are like that. They haven’t lived long enough to collect the disappointments, the betrayals, the moments that make adults second‑guess their own courage. They haven’t learned to dim their light to make others comfortable. They haven’t been taught to hide their pride behind self‑deprecating jokes.

Somewhere along the way, we lose that uncomplicated confidence. We stop celebrating ourselves for trying. We stop acknowledging how hard it is to keep going. We stop saying, “I’m proud of me,” even when we’ve earned it.

I felt that loss in my own body during my belt test. I passed — but I was shaking. I hate performing in front of people. My nerves were loud, my fear was louder, and yet I still stepped onto the mat. That should count for something. That does count for something.

And lately, I’ve been stretching that same muscle in another area of my life. I recently started a YouTube series to push my confidence around being seen and speaking publicly. Every part of me wants to hide, to wait until the video is “better,” until I feel more polished or less afraid. But I don’t let myself. No matter how imperfect the video is, I post it. Because I know that if I don’t push myself, I’ll never grow in that area. Avoidance doesn’t build confidence — practice does.

And when my instructor said, “It’s not easy,” I realized he wasn’t just talking about the test. He was naming a truth that has existed for centuries.

Why I Reference Martial Arts So Often

I talk about martial arts a lot because, during my own training, I’ve realized how deeply meaningful it is — and how much it changes you. I actually do think it’s helpful for people’s growth. Not because it’s glamorous or exciting, but because it forces you to meet yourself in ways everyday life rarely does.

In the beginning, I struggled. I was so tired after one class that I walked out to my car and cried. Not because anything terrible happened — but because it pushed every part of me: physically, emotionally, mentally. And yet, even through the frustration, the confusion, the moments I didn’t understand the “why” behind certain things, I kept feeling this pull: this is exactly where I need to grow.

And through that process — the exhaustion, the anger, the not‑getting‑it‑right — I have grown. That’s the point. Growth is not easy. It’s hard. It’s messy. It’s frustrating.

And that’s exactly why martial arts mirrors the journey many take with healing.

Both require discipline. Both demand courage. Both push you out of your comfort zone. Both ask you to keep going long after the initial excitement fades. Both confront you with the parts of yourself you’d rather avoid. And both teach you, again and again, that giving up on yourself is the only real failure.

Historically, martial arts was never just about fighting — it was about shaping a person from the inside out. In many traditions, training was considered a path, a way of life. Students weren’t just learning techniques; they were learning perseverance, humility, and self‑trust.

The belt system wasn’t created to reward talent. It was created to honor commitment.

Every belt represented hours of showing up when it was uncomfortable, confusing, or discouraging. It represented the moments when quitting felt easier but something inside whispered, “Not today.”

And that’s exactly what healing feels like.

Healing Is Its Own Martial Art

Healing asks for the same qualities martial arts has cultivated for centuries:

• Discipline — showing up for yourself even when you’re tired or scared.

• Courage — facing old wounds the way a student faces an opponent: with presence, honesty, and breath.

• Resilience — getting back up after emotional setbacks, the same way you rise after a fall on the mat.

• Self‑belief — trusting that you’re worth the effort, even when doubt whispers otherwise.

• Growth through discomfort — stepping into the unfamiliar, the vulnerable, the stretching places where transformation actually happens.

Healing, like martial arts, is not linear. It’s not glamorous. It’s not easy. But it is deeply, profoundly meaningful.

And that’s where the spiritual layer begins to reveal itself.

The Spiritual Thread: Growth Requires Surrender and Courage

The deeper that I go learning how to help clients heal — and the deeper I go in martial arts — the more I see the same spiritual pattern: growth is supposed to stretch you.

Every tradition teaches this in its own language:

• Endurance shapes character.

• Courage is built through practice.

• Transformation requires surrender.

• The path reveals itself only as you walk it.

When you step onto the mat — or into therapy, or into a hard conversation, or into a new chapter of your life — trembling, unsure, exposed, you’re doing spiritual work. You’re saying, “I will not abandon myself.” You’re saying, “I trust that who I’m becoming is worth this discomfort.”

That’s not just martial arts. That’s not just healing. That’s devotion — to your growth, your becoming, your life.

Everything Meaningful Is Hard — and That’s the Point

We love to say things like:

“Marriage is not easy.” “Being in a relationship is not easy.” “Being single is not easy.” “Running a business is not easy.” “Starting over is not easy.”

But we rarely finish the sentence.

The truth is: None of it is supposed to be easy.

Ease doesn’t grow you. Comfort doesn’t stretch you. Stagnation doesn’t fulfill you.

When we avoid challenge, we don’t protect ourselves — we shrink ourselves. We stay stuck, stagnant, untested. And then we wonder why life feels devoid of meaning or purpose.

Meaning comes from movement. Purpose comes from participation. Confidence comes from doing the thing you thought you couldn’t do.

That little kid bouncing on his toes knew something we forget as adults: You get to be proud of yourself for not giving up.

Not because you were perfect. Not because you weren’t scared. But because you kept going.

And that’s the whole point.