The first light of the last day of the month revealed a cool, wet morning.

Saturday.

The final hum of the week.

As always, I welcome the rest that follows. But even as I sit here writing, something else has begun to surface — a quiet understanding of what long-term training truly offers.

It’s not dramatic.

It’s not explosive.

It’s simply this: show up, do the best you can that day, and leave no stone unturned in your effort to move forward.

Late last night I received word that I needed to go to the police station today.

Nothing dramatic. Just part of the visa process — or so I was told.

I had no clear idea what it meant or what I would be required to do, but I carried a quiet hope that this would finally resolve everything. That soon I would be holding a fresh six-month visa, allowing this journey to continue without interruption.

This round has been harder than previous ones. I’ve heard of others being rejected for the same vague reason I was in Hong Kong. The logic feels unclear. The options feel limited.

Thursday always feels like the beginning of the second half of the week.

And today I am sore.

Deeply sore.

There’s no pretending otherwise, so I won’t. Today will require patience — a careful warm-up, slower transitions, and perhaps limiting the repetition of the move that has left me feeling slightly worse for wear.

A year ago, I would have pushed straight through it.

The start of a new week always carries a quiet excitement.

There’s something about Monday that feels like a clean page — challenges and rewards waiting patiently to unfold. I try to stay grounded in the present, but I can’t deny the subtle thrill of what might lie ahead.

This week I want to pay attention.

Over the weekend, certain thoughts and feelings rose to the surface. I’m not sure what they mean yet, but I plan to let them guide the process rather than rush to interpret them. A blank canvas. A few simple strokes. See where the path leads.

The sun is shining and the world feels calm.

This morning I spoke with an old friend from America. Every time we talk, I’m reminded what contentment looks like in human form. His ambitions are modest. His rhythm is steady. There’s no urgency in him, no need to impress, no subtle competition disguised as conversation.

Just presence.

We don’t fix anything. We don’t manufacture drama to solve. We just let time pass honestly and quietly. And somehow that feels like enough.

The school is changing again.

It always is. The rhythm of this place is shaped by the students who arrive and leave, like tides reshaping a shoreline. Yesterday a handful of English-speaking students turned up — and strangely, I knew them all.

It was good to see familiar faces.

And yet, something in me felt… older.

I’m not the oldest here. Not the youngest either. But when faces return and time has clearly moved on, I feel its weight more than I expect. I’m not entirely sure what that means.

Maybe it’s my endless belief that I should be better by now.

The last few days of training have been normal.

And yet, they’ve felt strange.

There’s a tiredness that has settled in — not sharp, not dramatic — just constant. The movements are still there. The forms haven’t disappeared. But the pace feels dulled. The explosiveness muted.

It’s as if I’m training in thick mud, every step negotiating resistance that wasn’t there before.

The longer it lingers, the heavier it feels.

After three days of rest, it was back to training today — and I was genuinely looking forward to it.

Wudang is not a place overflowing with distraction. There isn’t much to do here apart from train. And the strange thing is, that’s exactly why I love it.

Today marked the beginning of something new: the Bo Staff. A long spinning stick that, for reasons I can’t fully explain, immediately makes me smile. That feels like a good sign.

I’m entering this form without expectation. No grand ambition. Just the usual agreement — I will learn its language slowly, and in time it will reveal itself. Every form begins as a stranger.

Another day of rest as the New Year celebrations continue.

Even so, I notice students quietly running through their forms, as if two days off might undo months of work. I understand that feeling well. These arts require embodiment. If you stop completely, progress doesn’t explode — it leaks. Slowly. Subtly. Like a bucket with a small hole at the base.

For me, four days is about the limit before momentum needs attention.

I wandered into town for a change of view, only to discover everyone else had the same idea. Wudang, usually sleepy, feels overrun at peak holiday time. Families, laughter, colour. It’s all good. I found a quiet corner in the sun and did nothing in particular — some writing, a little reading, a lot of watching.

The first day of the new year was… strange.

The more I rested, the more tired I felt. It was as if stillness amplified the fatigue instead of dissolving it. No matter what I did, the heaviness remained.

So eventually, I stopped trying to fix it.

I surrendered.

And did nothing.

Which was probably exactly what I needed.

Sunday.

Bitter cold. Wind howling. Rain sharp enough to threaten snow at any moment.

On Sundays I always tell myself I’ll sleep in.

6am. Wide awake.

There’s something beautiful about waking early when there is nowhere urgent to be. The day stretches out in front of me with no demands attached. I’ll lightly run through a few forms — enough to move, not enough to exhaust. Just to keep the body honest.

Seven straight days of training have come to an end, and I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck that didn’t slow down out of courtesy.

The body is done. Completely.

And with the end of this week comes the end of the Chinese year. For some reason, this New Year’s Eve feels different — more relevant, more aligned with where I actually stand.

Perhaps it’s the immersion.

The Western calendar now feels like something glimpsed from a passing train window — still there, still real, but no longer central to my rhythm. This winding road I’m on has no clear destination, yet I continue moving toward something that feels important, even if I struggle to define it.

The goal remains blurry.

It’s been a long week.

Six days straight of revisiting two Wushu forms — Baji Fist and Xuan Wu Quan. Both physical. Both demanding. Both unwilling to let you hide.

I’ve loved the narrow focus. There’s something powerful about stripping everything back and committing fully to just two forms. But the truth is, it’s been tough turning up day after day to the same intensity.

The body feels it.

And yet, I wouldn’t change it.

Waking up tired and sore is no longer an exception. It’s the rhythm.

There are mornings when I long to feel loose, rested, ready — when I wish the body would greet the day with enthusiasm instead of resistance. But even through the heaviness, I know something important:

It’s working.

The endless repetition. The quiet discipline. The simple act of turning up when I don’t feel like it.

Six months ago, certain movements felt unreachable. Now they live in my body. Not perfectly — but undeniably there.

I’ve been back at school for two days, and I’m happy to report that everything hurts.

Shoulders. Hips. Ankles. A deep, familiar tiredness wrapping itself around me like an old companion who never truly leaves.

And strangely, it makes me happy.

I haven’t started anything new. Instead, I’ve returned to two fast forms — Xuan Wu Quan and Baji Quan. Both demanding. Both unforgiving. Both beautiful in their own direct, uncompromising way.

Yes, learning them the second time is easier. The body recognises patterns more quickly. The mind anticipates transitions.

But practice is no less brutal.

The sun was shining, but it still felt like winter.

Today unfolded slowly — the kind of gentle day that carries no great expectations. That was, of course, until an old friend appeared out of nowhere.

I hadn’t seen her in nearly two years. Suddenly she was back in town with her dance students and, for reasons still unclear to me, thought it would be a good idea to film TikTok dance videos.

Now, I know many things. One of them is that I cannot dance.

But when greeted with a kind smile and an enthusiastic request, I find it very hard to say no.

And so we began.

Day one of the second six months begins — or at least, that is how it feels.

Walking back through the school gates last night, I didn’t need words to tell me I was where I belonged. My body knew before my mind caught up. My heart rate slowed. My shoulders dropped. My nervous system, which had been humming quietly for two weeks, finally exhaled.

That was all the confirmation I needed.

I slept deeply — the kind of sleep that only comes when something inside you feels settled.

“Welcome home.”

Two simple words, spoken softly as I crossed the border back into China.

And just like that, something inside me lifted.

I hadn’t realised how heavy I had been carrying myself over the last two weeks until that moment. The lightness was immediate. A grin I couldn’t suppress. A quiet surge of relief moving through my body.

So I think it’s true.

China is home.

Yesterday I really tried to enjoy Hong Kong as a tourist. I wandered for hours, camera in hand, attempting to let the world move around me without attachment.

On the surface, it worked. I walked for nearly six hours. I saw plenty. I took photos.

But the truth is, I didn’t enjoy it.

It wasn’t wasted time — just time spent in a version of life that doesn’t resonate with me. Hong Kong rises in steel and glass, a vertical world where people move quickly through narrow spaces between ambition and necessity. Everyone seems busy. Busy doing what, I’m not entirely sure. Most faces are angled downward, lit by the soft glow of a screen.

I slept like a king last night.

Maybe it was exhaustion.
Maybe it was relief.
Or maybe it was simply the comfort of having a plan.

For the first time in weeks, there is direction. Two more days in Hong Kong, then back to China. Back to training. Back to rhythm.

It’s amazing how much easier the mind rests when it senses forward motion.