Not Bad

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.

So I lace up my shoes, strap what needs strapping, and head out the door again.

I’m one of the older students in class. Many train at half my age. I still have a strong capacity for work, but at night I do envy their recovery. Youth bounces back in ways time no longer allows.

But there is no use longing for what has passed.

There is only this moment.

The afternoon session was tough — not because the training was extraordinary, but because I chose to push harder. And I loved it. The gains are smaller now, more incremental, but they come with a clarity that spreads through every form.

Slow improvement has its own quiet power.

It tells me I’m on the right road for this stage of life.

Of course, each improvement reveals new flaws. New angles. New corrections. That’s the nature of it. Not discouraging — just honest.

At the end of the day, my coach watched me perform Baji Fist.

He didn’t smile broadly. Didn’t exaggerate. Didn’t soften.

He simply said:

“Not bad.”

The truest compliment.

Not bad.