That brings an end to a week of waiting in Hong Kong. And since nothing seems to be moving, I might as well become a tourist for the weekend.

I’m not sure what I’ll do. Maybe just get lost in the sprawl of the city. There are worse ways to pass the time.

I practised today, partly to shake off the frustration of a morning writing session that didn’t go the way I expected. That’s fine. Some days feel slightly misaligned — or perhaps it’s just me who feels that way right now.

Another day in Hong Kong passed much like the others. Moments slid by almost unnoticed, stitching themselves together into a thin fabric of routine that feels oddly foreign to me.

People move with purpose. They are busy, heading somewhere, doing something. I watch them while I wait — waiting to return to what I know, to what gives me focus and a sense of direction.

It’s not bad here. It’s just not my kind of good.

There is laughter, conversation, movement. And I find myself slightly detached from it all, not fully belonging here, yet temporarily removed from the place I now call home.

Today I finally caved.

I moved from training in twenty-dollar shoes to something far more expensive — not out of desire, but necessity. The shoes I’ve been wearing have been crushing my toes together, creating a constant ache in my left foot that I can no longer ignore.

So I did it. I invested in two pairs of barefoot shoes with wide toe boxes. From the moment I put them on, they felt right. Comfortable. Spacious. I’m hoping they give my left foot the time and room it needs to stop screaming for attention.

Still no movement on the visa. The waiting game continues, dull at best. For now, I think the best thing I can do is walk, camera in hand, and see what presents itself.

I have to admit that I’ve been in a strange mood since arriving in Hong Kong — one I haven’t felt in many months.

I think the feeling has risen simply because I don’t want to be here. Everything feels heavy, and each step stirs memories of a past I no longer want. I’m doing what I can to keep my head above water, yet an ache lingers, slowing me down, quietly pressing me to conform to a rhythm that makes little sense to me. And yet here I am, waiting for a visa so I can return to what I know, understand, and enjoy.

I know it shouldn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing. But the truth is, every moment spent away from what you love can feel like a moment you’ll never get back.

The first day in Hong Kong has left me feeling a little frayed around the edges. Being back in a large, crowded city that moves with an urgency I don’t understand is not something I love. Added to that, I am applying for a new visa — something I hate to admit is a new experience for me — and it has made me more nervous than I would like. Anyone who knows me knows that this kind of real-world administration is not my strong suit.

When I stopped in a park for a moment, I noticed how tired I felt — more tired than after any full day of training. It made me wonder if life in Wudang has been quietly supplying me with a constant flow of energy, and whether the pace of a concrete jungle now drains it away.

I don’t know the answer. It was just a question that passed through my mind in a brief pocket of calm.

Today marks the end of my first six months at the school. I still have a year to go, but it feels important to pause and honestly acknowledge the small steps that brought me here.

If I’m being truthful, I would have liked to have progressed further. I’m human, and expectation has a way of creeping in, quietly distorting reality. Desire can be a loud companion if left unchecked.

That said, I am pleased with how far I’ve come — not because of any single breakthrough, but because of the steady weight of effort applied day after day. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, improvement has arrived.

This week, training has become a little routine — by design.

I am working my way toward Hong Kong, moving through the final stages of ankle recovery, and trying to reach the end of the week without collecting another injury. So far, it’s working.

I’ve returned to Tai Chi sword and have been making small but meaningful steps forward. I don’t know why this kind of progress still surprises me, but it does. Every step, every thrust, every transition improves in a way that quietly pulls my thoughts toward the six-month review that’s approaching.

Today marked the fourth day in a row of extreme cold.

It’s been manageable — we’ve been training indoors — but today was tough. The kind of cold that feels like it’s settled deep into the bones, where most of your energy is spent simply trying to stay warm enough to move.

Training like this is never easy, but everyone does what they can. I tend to simplify things on days like these, returning to the forms that still — and likely always will — require constant attention. There’s comfort in that familiarity.

Today was the coldest day of winter.

The kind of cold that makes the idea of staying in bed feel not only reasonable, but intelligent. But there was training to be done, so up I got.

I won’t pretend it was easy. The cold seeped into everything, and with the end of my first six months approaching — along with an upcoming trip to Hong Kong to renew my visa — my energy felt scattered. There’s a subtle mental fatigue that comes with transitions, even when they’re chosen.

Today was an uninteresting day.

It was Monday, and I made the decision not to train. The weather shifted late yesterday, so I checked the forecast. Snow was coming — and not just a little.

So, without much hesitation, I skipped training and headed for the mountain with my camera instead.

When I woke, the light outside confirmed what I already knew. Cold. Grey. Heavy. One of those days that doesn’t ask anything of you, but doesn’t offer much either.

Saturday arrived like a small gift. A day of rest in what often feels like a relentless endeavour. Training was limited to the morning, which, in this world, almost counts as time off.

The session was enjoyable. We began the first steps of a new form — the Eight Immortals Staff Form. It’s long, intricate, and demanding, involving a weapon that towers well above my head. It will take time. A lot of it. But that is no surprise here.

What did surprise me was how natural the Bo Staff felt in my hands. More than any other weapon I’ve trained with, it carries a strange sense of familiarity — as if it belongs there. I don’t know why that is, and I don’t feel the need to explain it yet. These are only first steps. Any real understanding will arrive later, earned quietly through repetition and patience.

Today was an interesting day. Nothing remarkable happened on the surface. I am still injured, still very much a student, still carrying a long list of things that need work. Physically, the journey continues much as it has for months. Mentally, however, something shifted — and the shift arrived suddenly, like cold water on bare skin.

Yesterday was not a good day. My coach told me plainly that my Tai Chi technique still has fundamental issues that, if left unaddressed, will continue to hold me back. It wasn’t pleasant to hear, but it was honest. Necessary. And, as always, correct.

I did what I usually do. I reframed it. I told myself a story that softened the truth just enough to make it tolerable. Progress, patience, time — all the familiar language that allows you to move forward without really sitting in the discomfort.

The contrasts of this journey never seem to stop. Most days I love them — they keep things honest — but there are moments when I wish the way forward felt clearer, less obscured by effort and doubt.

The afternoon began like many others: a careful warm-up for my injuries, followed by some gentle Tai Chi. Nothing unusual. Nothing dramatic. And then things shifted.

My coach, Louis, came over and watched me complete Tai Chi 13 — a form I know well, or at least one I believed I did. It’s a form I’m comfortable with, familiar enough to feel like home.

Or so I thought.

When I finished, I looked to him instinctively, hoping for some small sign — confirmation that the work is paying off, that progress is happening, that the hours matter.

Even after all of my home-made doctoring last night, I woke to the same pain and stiffness. There was no denying it — training wasn’t an option today. So it was time to visit the TCM doctor.

As expected, the moment I showed him my foot, he placed a finger directly on the pain point. No hesitation. He just knew. Yet, as always, the first needle he pushed into me was nowhere near the injury.

Right foot injured.
Left hand worked on.

It never stops amazing me how the body functions, and how deeply these doctors understand its connections. As the session unfolded, I could feel tension, stress, and anxiety slowly draining away. That familiar sense of quiet returning. From there came the hot mud wrap — thick, heavy, and warm — followed by more needles, this time into the foot itself. Not enjoyable, but unquestionably necessary.

I have a modest, simple dream.
It’s been the same since I began this journey.

To make it through a full week without getting injured.

Monday morning arrived with promise. I felt good — loose, strong, smiling. For a moment, I even let myself think: maybe this is the week. Maybe this small, unreasonable dream might finally be realised.

The session was going well. Movement felt clean, effort felt honest, and then — just like that — it ended with me limping away, back to my room, assessing the damage.

The weekend moved slowly, as if time itself is affected by the cold of winter. I found a way to be productive without pushing too hard — a bit of writing in the warmth of a local café, where I also met a kind couple from England studying an hour away.

All in all, it was a good weekend. Small steps forward, taken while still carrying the weight of the past — which at times feels like a river of mistakes flowing relentlessly toward the future, always trying to pull you back under.

That will not be happening.

I often wonder why I sit out in the cold of night watching the coaches train. It’s not especially comfortable, and there is nothing required of me there. Still, I return night after night.

There are a few reasons.
First, I like seeing what is possible — not as a fantasy, but as something real and earned. Second, even though their movement appears effortless, almost gifted, the truth is obvious if you look long enough: the ease is the result of years spent making the hard feel ordinary and the impossible feel familiar. And third — the part that matters most to me — they are still students. Still training. Still refining. Still showing up.

It’s been a very tiring week.
That much is undeniable.

But the feeling pulled me into a familiar line of questioning — one I seem unable to resist. If I keep focusing on how tired I feel, am I reinforcing it? Am I feeding the thing I’m trying to understand? And if that’s true, then what role does effort actually play?

I don’t know the answer. I’m not even sure there is one. But I do know that attention has weight, and wherever it settles, something begins to grow.

Some fatigue is physical — earned, unavoidable. This might well be that kind of tiredness. Still, I can’t ignore the sense that my focus has been circling the feeling itself, replaying it, giving it more space than it deserves.

The new year has started slowly.

The cold persists, the days feel short, and even when the sun shows up, it doesn’t stay long. Injuries keep arriving too — shoulder, hip — like familiar songs on an old radio station. You don’t hate them, but you recognise them the moment they start playing.

Nothing feels serious. More like overuse, accumulation, the quiet cost of repetition. I’ll ease back for a few days and see what changes. The new form has been asking different questions of my body, pulling it into unfamiliar places. Every form does this eventually. It doesn’t matter how many miles you’ve logged — wear and tear always finds you.

Today was cold, but enjoyable.

I’m studying my new form, Xing Yi, in a small group — something I’ve done a couple of times now. I think I like the smaller groups. You get more time with the coaches, more direct correction, more clarity. What I don’t love is the chatter that comes with it.

Maybe it’s because I don’t understand the language — that part is on me — but the constant talking feels like it burns time. And, as with all group activities, you can only move as fast as the slowest pace in the room. Normally I would find that frustrating, but today I didn’t mind too much. I’m feeling a little sore, a little flat, and that makes patience easier to find.