It happened while I was sleeping.

The clock moved from 11:59:59 to 12:00:00 and, just like that, we have a new year.

I’ve always liked this time of year. It makes me smile watching people reflect on what they’ve learned and declare what will change. But the reality is that nothing actually changed — just a clock passing an imaginary line, signalling hope by agreement. It feels like a quiet ritual we repeat each year, gathering lessons, resetting intentions, and stepping back onto the same road.

The longer I stay in the Wudang Mountains, the clearer it becomes that change doesn’t arrive in an instant. It’s built in the unseen work — the days you choose effort over comfort, again and again — until one day something has shifted. No announcement. No applause. Just the quiet understanding that you earned it.

Life is simple. We’ve just learned how to complicate it.

I’m reaching the end of my first six months here. Seasons have passed slowly. When I arrived it was brutally hot; now I sit in a small café holding a hot coffee close, more for warmth than taste. My body feels worn from constant training, but my mind feels clear and steady. Calm in a way I didn’t expect.

Progress has been made — enough to notice, not enough to feel finished. And I’m not naïve enough to believe the road ever ends. Time and age walk alongside us all, placing certain dreams just beyond reach. That isn’t tragic. It’s simply true.

Acceptance hasn’t softened my ambition; it’s sharpened my understanding. I know myself better now. I know what matters. I know how I want to move forward and, just as importantly, how I want to share what I’ve learned.

So yes, the road ahead is long. And that feels right.

China, as always, does things its own way.

Last night’s New Year’s Eve celebration was cancelled because of snow, so it was simply moved to tonight. The fires are roaring, the barbecue is burning, and karaoke echoes across the courtyard. Watching highly skilled Kung Fu practitioners belt out songs with complete abandon only confirms something I’ve believed for a long time — nobody gets everything.

But what they do have is warmth, laughter, and ease. The younger students are enjoying the break from routine. The older ones are content to sit back and watch, knowing there’s nothing to practice, nothing to refine. Just a moment to be present.

This place really is a family.

Not perfect. Not effortless. But shared.

And that feels like a very honest way to begin a year.