A Quiet Answer

I spent the first evening of the new year with a close friend and was caught off guard by a simple question.

She asked if I missed home.

It should have been easy to answer. It wasn’t.

I’ve spent most of my life moving across the globe, working in major cities. I lived in places like London and Sydney, spent years there, built routines, friendships, careers. But none of them ever really felt like home.

The truth is, I grew up in small country towns. Places where everyone knows everyone. Where people say hello because it’s normal, not because they want something. Life felt simpler there. Supported. People shared similar values, and quality of life seemed to matter more than how it looked from the outside. I liked it then, and it turns out I still do.

When the answer finally surfaced, all I could say was that Wudang feels as close to home as I’ve experienced in many years.

I love the slow rhythm here. The subtle smiles. The small gestures — a nod of the head that often says more than words ever could. Life looks simple from the outside, but living it isn’t. Another contrast, quietly unfolding on a road with no real end.

Today is cold, and training will be tough. The honest kind of tough — the kind that reminds you you’re alive and chasing something that isn’t immediately obvious.

I’m happy here. For now, I call this place home.

The remains of last night’s school celebration were scattered across the training ground this morning, so the coaches moved practice to a nearby temple. I always enjoy that. There’s something about training in a centuries-old space that shifts your posture, your attention — as if the people who began this lineage are still nearby, steadying you through each step.

The session stayed warm simply because you had to keep moving. The cold is biting now, the wind sharp. My body feels like it’s retreating inward, becoming dense, unyielding. Any flexibility I’ve earned feels temporarily lost.

That’s not surprising. Seasons change. Bodies follow.

Right now, everything feels tight — joints like rusted hinges grinding against each other, asking for relief I don’t know how to give. I’m doing what I can. It just isn’t matching what I want yet.

All that’s left is persistence. The work. The homework. Trusting that the gains will arrive when they’re ready.

Friday night. The week ends. I watched Stand By Me — a film I hadn’t seen in years. It’s a story about boyhood friendship, about that first quiet brush with adulthood. It left me missing the ease of that time.

Maybe memory softens the edges, but the world seemed to move more kindly then. There was a freedom in growing up with friends, sharing moments simply because you were alive together. Experiences no one else would ever know about — and maybe that’s how it should be.

Memories held by a few who mattered, rather than shared with many who don’t.

I’m grateful for the life I’ve lived — the mistakes, the searching, the unanswered questions. Not everything turned out the way I hoped, but every step led to the next.

I hope it was the same for my old friends.
The ones who shared those early, unrepeatable moments.