I love Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

I love the problem-solving.

I love how one position becomes another. A grip becomes a frame. A frame becomes an escape. An escape becomes an attack if you recognize the opening fast enough.

Jiu-jitsu is physical chess.

But sometimes, while I’m rolling, I feel the absence of another language I used to speak.

I miss kicking.

More than that, I miss what kicking allowed me to do.

I miss controlling distance.

I miss creating space when I need to breathe and taking space away when I want to attack.

I miss circling around my partners, flanking them, making them turn, and attacking from the side or the back instead of meeting them head-on.

I miss playing the chess game with my feet.

The Annoying Mosquito

After I applied the Aikido happo undo (8 directions) exercise to my Hapkido training, my footwork began to change.

I became more mobile. More agile. I learned to move around my training partners instead of standing directly in front of them and trading attacks.

Muhammad Ali famously said:

I was not Muhammad Ali.

My classmates had a less flattering comparison. They said I was like an annoying mosquito.

I would buzz around them. Stay just outside their preferred range. Dart in with small attacks. Move away before they could settle. Then circle and do it again.

My intention was not to finish them with one giant strike. I wanted to win through a thousand cuts.​

In my own imagination, I was not Fafhrd with the broadsword. I was the Gray Mouser.​

Smaller. Faster. Harder to pin down.

I was never going to overpower bigger classmates. I needed to frustrate them, make them turn, create openings, and accumulate small advantages.

My footwork gave me room to breathe.

It also let me decide when there would be no room for them to breathe.

That was the game I loved.

The Attack Gives You Information

One of the things I eventually became good at was recognizing when someone was about to throw a spinning kick.

I cannot give you one simple cue.

It was not merely the hips. It was not merely the feet. It was not merely the distance, the rhythm, the posture, or the person’s intent.

It was all of those things together.

After thousands of hours of sparring, I could sometimes see the kick coming before the movement had fully developed.

That ability was not mystical.

It was expensive.

The price of failing to recognize the setup was getting nailed by a powerful spinning kick. Enough painful consequences teach you to pay attention.

Over time, I stopped consciously calculating what I was seeing.

I simply saw it.

When my partner began to spin, I did not always move backward. Sometimes I stepped in and spun in with them.

Their attack temporarily turned their back toward me. Their strongest weapon created their most vulnerable angle.

My footwork, my small size, and my ability to move quickly allowed me to circle into that opening and take their back.

From there, I could punch or kick while they were exposed.

Liver shot anyone?

I wouldn't do it to my training partners, but I realized how I could use it on the street.

The spinning kick was not only an attack.

It was information.

Their commitment changed the position. It created a new angle. The attack told me where the opening would appear.

You Cannot Think Fast Enough

This is what people mean by unconscious competence.​

I was not consciously saying:

By the time I finished thinking through all of that, the kick would have hit me.

The conscious mind is too slow.

The closest analogy I can offer is catching a ball.

Imagine an outfielder tracking a baseball through the air.

There is velocity, trajectory, gravity, wind, spin, distance, foot placement, timing, and the movement of the body underneath the ball.

The player does not solve the equations on paper.

They run.

They adjust.

They put out the glove.

They either catch the ball or they do not.

Their body has learned to solve a problem their conscious mind could never process quickly enough.

Martial arts works the same way.

You either recognize the movement or you do not.

You either arrive at the opening or you arrive too late.

This is why repetitions matter.

Not because mindless repetition is automatically valuable.

Because good repetitions, combined with real consequences and feedback, teach the nervous system to recognize patterns too complex to explain one variable at a time.

Eventually, you stop seeing separate pieces.

You see the whole thing.

The Technique Is Not the Game

A beginner often sees a kick as a kick.

Throw it. Land it. Score with it. Hurt the other person with it.

But that is only the surface.

A high attack can lift the guard and expose the body.

Pressure on one side can create space on the other.

A threat to the leg can change the stance.

A change in rhythm can make someone freeze, retreat, reach, turn, or plant their weight where you want it.

The first movement asks a question.

The opponent’s reaction gives you an answer.

The next movement uses that answer.

Sometimes you attack the opening.

Sometimes you attack to create the opening.

That was the conversation I loved in Hapkido.

Distance. Timing. Angle. Balance. Rhythm. Intent.

One movement becoming another.

The technique was never the entire game.

The relationship between the techniques was the game.

The Same Chessboard, a Different Language

That strategic intelligence exists in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu too.

I can see enough to know it is there.

You threaten the choke, and your partner moves a hand. The hand becomes available for control.

You attack the arm, and your partner turns. The turn exposes the back.

You pressure one side, and the other side becomes light.

You create space for an escape, and the reaction creates an opportunity to improve your position.

The logic is familiar.

But I am not yet fluent.

In Hapkido, I had thousands of hours of experience teaching me to read the setup, feel the distance, and recognize the opening.

In BJJ, I am still a beginner.

Sometimes my partner sweeps me, and I realize afterward that I never felt the shift in balance that made the sweep possible.

I know they moved me.

I still do not know how to reliably feel that balance and create the same result against them.

That does not mean the language is absent.

It means I have not learned to hear it yet.

Maybe one day I will feel a sweep coming the way I used to see the spinning kick.

Maybe I will recognize the shift before it becomes obvious.

Maybe I will learn to create reactions on the ground with the same freedom I once had on my feet.

For now, I am still collecting repetitions.

Missing Something Does Not Mean You Chose Wrong

I do not think loving Hapkido means I chose the wrong art by training Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

I do not need to decide which art wins.

That is a childish way to approach growth.

People often discover something new and immediately rewrite their history.

The old career was a waste.

The old training was useless.

The old chapter did not matter.

But sometimes the old practice built the eyes that allow you to appreciate the new one.

Hapkido taught me to see movement as a relationship rather than a collection of techniques.

It taught me to look for direction, angle, distance, rhythm, redirection, balance, and the opening created by commitment.

BJJ gives me a new laboratory for many of those same questions.

The old language did not disappear.

It influences how I learn the new one.

And the new language helps me understand the old one differently.

Growth does not always require replacing one identity with another.

Sometimes growth means carrying forward what the previous identity taught you.

You can love where you are and still miss where you have been.

You can move forward without pretending nothing valuable was left behind.

What I Really Miss

When I say that I miss kicking, I do mean the kicks.

I miss the speed.

I miss the snap.

I miss the feeling of moving freely on my feet.

But underneath all of that, I miss the moving conversation.

I miss creating space and taking it away.

I miss moving around someone instead of colliding directly with them.

I miss the dance between high and low, left and right, advance and retreat, threat and opening.

I miss making a partner turn and arriving where they did not expect me to be.

I miss recognizing what was coming and using their commitment against them.

It was never only about the kick.

It was about the conversation the kick began.

The Lesson Beyond Martial Arts

Most people try to force the first move.

They repeat the same argument.

Push the same sales pitch.

Give the same instruction.

Attack the same problem from the same angle.

When it fails, they add more force.

But every action creates a reaction.

And every reaction changes the situation.

A good martial artist does not merely ask:

A better question is:

Maybe the kick did not land, but the opponent stepped backward.

Maybe the sweep failed, but the opponent posted a hand.

Maybe the request did not receive an immediate yes, but it revealed the real objection.

Maybe the boundary did not instantly change someone’s behavior, but it showed you who respected you and who only liked you when you were easy to control.

The first move may not finish the problem.

It may reveal the problem.

That is not failure.

That is information.

Dojo Drill: Find the Second Opening

Choose one problem you are currently trying to solve.

Write down the first move you keep making.

Then ask:

What reaction does this move create?

What changes because of that reaction?

What new opening appears?

What would happen if I stopped trying to force the original plan and worked with the new information instead?

Make one move.

Pay attention.

Then respond to what is actually there.

That is the chess game.

Whether you are playing it with your hands, your feet, your words, or your decisions, the principle remains the same.

The first move creates the opening.

The skilled person notices it.

P.S. Is there a skill, practice, or part of yourself you still miss—not because your current path is wrong, but because the old path taught you a language you still want to speak?

⚔ The Dojo Drill

Today’s training:

The Fear List

Write down 3 fears you’ve been avoiding.

Take one small action toward one today.

📚 Leader’s Library

Book I recommend this week:

​​Thinking in Bets — Annie Duke​

Why?

Because if you're going to make decisions, you might as well learn how to best on yourself to make the best decision.

P.S. Know a martial arts gym owner who’s stressed about money or student numbers?

Do them a favor: send them to The Leader's Dōjō, my website where I help owners get more students and keep them longer with simple systems.

One forward from you could change their gym: The Leader's Dōjō​

Chuck