While the new year technically began a few days ago, as far as training is concerned it feels like 2026 really starts today.

I feel happy and quietly excited to still be here, still training. At the same time, I’ve begun to notice just how many people are selling online courses in a style not unlike what I intend to create.

Watching their Facebook ads has been unexpectedly useful. What stands out almost immediately is that the words matter very little. If the images — and more importantly, the movement — don’t feel real, I lose interest fast. Poor basics dressed up with big promises are impossible to hide. Once you see it, you can’t unsee it.

So what am I learning?

The weekend is over, and it always seems to pass rather quickly — too quickly for tired souls doing their best in the depths of winter.

The weekend was, without doubt, the coldest I have been in all the time I have spent here. But the truth is that I had a lovely weekend spending time with a friend. Together we achieved very little, and somehow that felt like enough. I would love to have more energy on the weekends, but that just never seems to be the case.

So, with a mildly rested body, it is back to work as we dive deeper into Xing Yi — a new form that is starting to take shape but still requires thought to complete.

The weekend arrived under a low, heavy mist that seems to have settled comfortably over Wudang — a small town I’ve now called home, on and off, for more than a year of my life.

Last night was gentle and unhurried. I spent the evening with a friend, watching an old film that stirred a quiet nostalgia — memories of past friends, shared laughter, moments that felt important simply because they were lived.

It’s strange how certain thoughts surface without invitation, pulled from some deep recess of the mind and placed squarely in front of you. Maybe that comes with age. Or maybe it’s a side effect of the life I’ve chosen — one that leaves enough space for those thoughts to rise.

It’s the weekend, and truthfully there isn’t much to do here. But I’m beginning to think there’s just enough.

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.

During the lunch break I called a friend. As he often does, he asked a question meant to spark reflection.

He asked how my 2025 had been, and what I was hoping for in 2026.

I didn’t know how to answer. Not because the year had been empty, but because the question itself suddenly felt misplaced. As I sat with it, I realised something had shifted more than I’d noticed.

During the lunch break I called a friend. As he often does, he asked a question meant to spark reflection.

He asked how my 2025 had been, and what I was hoping for in 2026.

I didn’t know how to answer. Not because the year had been empty, but because the question itself suddenly felt misplaced. As I sat with it, I realised something had shifted more than I’d noticed.

Why would I hold feelings about the past?
It’s finished. Closed. Nothing there can be changed.

And why would I project feelings onto the future?
It hasn’t arrived, and my imagining it carries very little weight.

What I care about now is simpler than that.

I care about now.

All I can really say about today is this:
the new form absolutely kicked my ass.

I’d convinced myself I was progressing — getting closer, settling in — and then, as new forms often do, it exposed just how much ground still lies ahead. Especially for my legs. Especially today.

The burning was something else entirely. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt anything quite like it. Pure fire in the thighs. A deep, relentless heat that leaves no room for distraction. Every moment makes it very clear where you are — and how far you still have to go.

While eating dinner tonight, my gaze drifted across a sea of faces I no longer recognise. I suppose that’s inevitable when you stay at the school long enough. Students arrive and leave with reliable regularity, like tides.

But tonight felt different.

For the first time, I realised I was the only foreigner here. The lone European face among a room full of Chinese students. Friends, really — but unfamiliar ones.

It was a strange feeling. Subtly lonely. Mildly isolating.

It’s Sunday — my day off, the one I look forward to each week.

The sun is shining, creating the illusion of warmth, though it does little to soften winter’s bite. The trees are bare now, stripped of leaves and flowers. The grass has faded to a muted brown, signalling a season of rest rather than growth.

And yet, even in these harsher conditions, there is still so much to learn. Secrets remain. Small, meaningful progress continues to present itself if I’m willing to notice it.

This change of season seems to have stirred a change in me as well. Not a sharp turn — more of a soft adjustment. A gentler approach. A kinder mindset that allows me to step back and see the wider landscape, instead of forcing myself endlessly up the same hill.

Christmas came and went, as it always does. A lot of fanfare, very little substance.

It was a pleasant day, but it passed like a brief storm — a small disturbance that rattled things momentarily before disappearing without much trace. And now we move toward a new year, carrying hope, dreams, and often more old baggage than we care to admit.

For me, not much has changed. I’m still walking the same path, holding the same goals. And strangely, I’m grateful for that. Lately it’s taken real effort to stay focused and optimistic, but continuity feels grounding.

It’s Christmas Day — a day I’ve always loved. There’s something almost childlike about it. For a brief moment, not much seems to matter. Who you are, what you’ve achieved, what you own — all of it softens, fades into the background.

What remains is simpler, and somehow heavier.

Christmas has a way of reminding you that family and friendship outweigh any belief system built on imagined achievement. That may sound harsh, but today it feels undeniably true.

For many, this day means returning to where everything began — the family home, the place where early dreams were formed, where love and learning first took shape. A return to familiar walls and familiar voices.

The truth is I’ve felt a little lost over the past few weeks. Nothing dramatic. Just lonely. Which, when I say it out loud, makes sense — spending both my birthday and Christmas alone has a way of amplifying quiet thoughts.

What’s surprised me more is the direction my mind has been drifting. I’ve caught myself circling everything that isn’t working. All the things I could be doing. All the ways I imagine I’m falling short. It’s a narrow lens, and an unfair one.

Because when I stop and look properly, the evidence tells a very different story.

That was a tough week.
There’s no dressing it up.

Sore and painful is the only honest description. My hips hurt all week and no matter what I tried, nothing shifted. Same outcome, day after day. Frustration built quietly at first, then all at once.

Today it tipped into anger.

Not a great way to practice, but it was real. Pretending otherwise would have been pointless.

Today passed largely without event.

I’m still a little sore and tight from the run — not injured, just reminded — but otherwise things are moving along quietly, without friction. No drama. No breakthrough. Just steady ground.

I made one meaningful decision today. I signed up for another six months.

It feels both long and reassuring. A stretch of time that will no doubt be demanding, but one I’m ready for. These forms still hold layers I can sense but not yet access. I’m fairly sure they’ve always been there, waiting patiently for the right combination of skill, patience, and clarity to reveal themselves.

Over the last week I’ve been struggling with a set of photographs. I couldn’t quite understand why. They weren’t bad, but something felt off — unresolved.

When I sent them to a friend and tried to explain the discomfort, she offered a simple thought: you’re changing every day, so the way you see things is changing too.

That sentence stayed with me. It sent me back into the files.

About thirty minutes later I closed the computer, slightly stunned.

To call this week up and down would be generous.

Training has been tough. It always is. But beginning a proper review of Tai Chi 28 stripped away a few comfortable assumptions I didn’t realise I was carrying. The distance between where I am and where I want to be revealed itself very clearly — and not gently.

That’s not a bad thing. There is space to grow into. Room to build. I simply believed I was further along than I actually am.

The issue is familiar. I think the body is moving, but it isn’t — not fully. The arms are still doing too much of the work, stepping in where they shouldn’t. They’re meant to follow, not lead. The movement should originate from the body, carried through naturally, posture to posture.

A new day. And in many ways, a new year.

The plans are simple.
This year I want to become quieter. To exist in a place few people notice, and even fewer bother to look for.

I don’t want to be part of a bigger game anymore. It brings me very little joy. I want my head down, my thoughts kept mostly to myself, expressed only through writing, while I give my time to the one thing that continues to feel honest.

Training.

Today was my birthday. It was quiet. Peaceful. And, if I’m honest, a little lonely.

I spent most of the day training and keeping to myself. That usually means less friction. Fewer explanations. Less energy spent trying to bridge gaps that no longer feel worth crossing.

I’m starting to realise something simple: the less I give of myself to others, the less I need to listen, the less I need to explain, and the less I need to ask what happened to the world I thought I knew.

The start of the week always carries a sense of possibility. Today felt quietly good. I didn’t learn anything new, but we began a review of Tai Chi 28, and that alone turned out to be revealing.

As you move deeper into anything, your capacity to notice detail grows. What once felt complete begins to open again. The best way I can describe it is this: the Tai Chi 28 I learned a year ago is not the Tai Chi 28 I practiced today.

The form hasn’t changed.
So something else must have.

I’ve been back at the school for a few days now, and the truth is it feels good to be here. It feels like home.

I know how strange that sounds — living in temporary accommodation in the middle of China, studying Kung Fu — but it’s still true. When I was away, things felt slightly off. Not wrong. Just misaligned. Not how I want to live, not how I want to move through my days.

Everything out there seemed faster. Quieter moments were quickly filled. Silence treated like something to avoid rather than sit with. It’s not impossible to think in that world, but it takes effort — the current is always pulling toward familiar noise.