“I don’t know how many things you’re good at, but you’re great at this.”
My head instructor had said this to me during my black belt test, a moment I still remember three and a half years later.
Until then, I had carried the belief that I wasn’t exceptional at taekwondo — and that no matter how hard I worked, I would never be truly great. Hearing her say this during the hardest test of my life up until that point challenged that belief. In that moment, I realized I had what it takes to become a black belt, and that the limits I had placed on myself were self-imposed.
I first started taking taekwondo classes when I was 4-years-old. At the time, it was just another extracurricular activity that my parents signed me up for. I remember looking up to all the black belts, and thinking it would be cool to get one someday. But at that point, I didn’t have the necessary strength, coordination or balance to become a great martial artist.
So by around age 7, I assumed at some point I would quit as I got older. After all, only about 10 percent of people who start Taekwondo training end up achieving their black belt, according to Today’s Taekwondo, highlighting the dedication and skill required to master the art. Little did I know that a decade later, I would have a black belt around my waist.
I got my black belt in the summer of 2022. However, a few months before I decided to go for my black belt, I almost quit. Going to the classes took up a lot of my time, as the studio was 20 minutes away and the classes were an hour long. Many times I’d be hanging out with my friends when my mom would call, telling me it was time to come home and go to taekwondo. This made martial arts feel like a forced chore, rather than something I genuinely enjoyed. I felt like I was wasting time on something I didn’t like, and wasn’t very good at.
I also remember the frustration I felt when comparing my abilities to my peers. Most of them were really sharp, and had better footwork, power and speed. I thought if I decided to test for my black belt, I would fail, making all the commitment pointless.
Such comparisons are an inescapable part of human nature. I couldn’t help but compare myself against others. But over time, I realized that comparison only distracted me from what truly mattered — my own progress.
I realized that if I wanted to get my black belt, I needed to be all-in and committed. I needed to stop focusing on others and focus on myself, because that’s the only variable one can control. I did not want to feel like I wasted a decade of training. And most importantly, I had to enjoy it, because without passion, even the greatest accomplishments become hollow. I wasn’t just going to be given a black belt, I had to go and take it.
The months of training leading up to the test were physically taxing. Every Sunday morning, before most people were awake, my class met at the beach for three-hour training sessions. The sand was uneven, shifting with every step as we ran miles through the cold morning air along the beach. On the steep slope near the water where the sand and water collided, we crawled up the sand on our hands and knees in army and bear crawls, dragged each other like firemen and did wheelbarrow drills along the incline. We trained with sticks — short, wooden batons used to practice striking, blocking and control.
We drilled forms until they were nearly perfect, and practiced sparring to the sound of the crashing waves. By the end of each session, my body was exhausted. But I left the beach feeling stronger, sharper and more controlled than when I arrived, all qualities of a black belt.
Despite all this preparation, when the test arrived, I still questioned if I had what it took to pass.
On the first day of the black belt test, each student took turns stepping forward to earn what were called “energy stripes.” The task sounded simple: throw a punch and scream until you embodied the energy of a black belt. But after countless tries, I hadn’t passed.
At first, I treated it like a test of volume — just yell as loud as possible and move on. But my instructor saw through that. I realized it wasn’t a test about noise, but rather about presence. My instructor told me that after I threw each punch, I looked at her for validation. I realized it wasn’t about if she thought I was a black belt, but rather if I thought I was one.
So the next time I went up, I screamed as loud as I could. The difference was that this time, I didn’t look to her. I stared straight forward, eyes locked in on the imaginary target, with full confidence in my own ability.
Time seemed to freeze in that moment, as I stood there holding the punch. After a few moments of long, quiet silence, she told me congratulations and that I had passed. As I took a sigh of relief, I realized that I had just displayed a powerful strength that I didn’t know I possessed. For the first time, my scream was louder than my doubt.
My peers often called me a ‘quiet storm,’ because I’ve always been quieter and more reserved than most. I don’t always draw attention to myself, or have the loudest voice, but yet people can still feel my energy.
This reflects a truth that I’ve come to accept: that the most powerful changes often happen quietly, beneath the surface, in the effort no one sees. Others only see the results, not the steps that went into it.
From the outside, progress can look sudden or effortless, but that hides the hours of unseen work, the failures no one witnesses and the choice to not give up when quitting would have been easiest.
At the end of the day, the black belt is just a piece of fabric. It’s the journey and the memories of all the hard work and dedication that make it special.
Achieving the black belt changed how I approach things outside of martial arts. It reshaped the way I view success, not as the end result, but as the process itself. I learned that progress is not linear, and that being consistent and stacking days even when progress feels slow or invisible eventually leads to success. Setbacks are no longer failures, but dips in a long term trajectory of growth.
After three hours of intense sparring and conditioning, when the test was finally over, I felt nothing but relief. I didn’t immediately think about the fact I got my black belt. In that moment, the achievement felt secondary compared to the weight of everything it took to get there. My mind drifted to the several months of frustration, self-doubt and quiet persistence that shaped me more than the belt itself ever could.
