Today was the coldest day of winter.

The kind of cold that makes the idea of staying in bed feel not only reasonable, but intelligent. But there was training to be done, so up I got.

I won’t pretend it was easy. The cold seeped into everything, and with the end of my first six months approaching — along with an upcoming trip to Hong Kong to renew my visa — my energy felt scattered. There’s a subtle mental fatigue that comes with transitions, even when they’re chosen.

Today was an uninteresting day.

It was Monday, and I made the decision not to train. The weather shifted late yesterday, so I checked the forecast. Snow was coming — and not just a little.

So, without much hesitation, I skipped training and headed for the mountain with my camera instead.

When I woke, the light outside confirmed what I already knew. Cold. Grey. Heavy. One of those days that doesn’t ask anything of you, but doesn’t offer much either.

Saturday arrived like a small gift. A day of rest in what often feels like a relentless endeavour. Training was limited to the morning, which, in this world, almost counts as time off.

The session was enjoyable. We began the first steps of a new form — the Eight Immortals Staff Form. It’s long, intricate, and demanding, involving a weapon that towers well above my head. It will take time. A lot of it. But that is no surprise here.

What did surprise me was how natural the Bo Staff felt in my hands. More than any other weapon I’ve trained with, it carries a strange sense of familiarity — as if it belongs there. I don’t know why that is, and I don’t feel the need to explain it yet. These are only first steps. Any real understanding will arrive later, earned quietly through repetition and patience.

Today was an interesting day. Nothing remarkable happened on the surface. I am still injured, still very much a student, still carrying a long list of things that need work. Physically, the journey continues much as it has for months. Mentally, however, something shifted — and the shift arrived suddenly, like cold water on bare skin.

Yesterday was not a good day. My coach told me plainly that my Tai Chi technique still has fundamental issues that, if left unaddressed, will continue to hold me back. It wasn’t pleasant to hear, but it was honest. Necessary. And, as always, correct.

I did what I usually do. I reframed it. I told myself a story that softened the truth just enough to make it tolerable. Progress, patience, time — all the familiar language that allows you to move forward without really sitting in the discomfort.

The contrasts of this journey never seem to stop. Most days I love them — they keep things honest — but there are moments when I wish the way forward felt clearer, less obscured by effort and doubt.

The afternoon began like many others: a careful warm-up for my injuries, followed by some gentle Tai Chi. Nothing unusual. Nothing dramatic. And then things shifted.

My coach, Louis, came over and watched me complete Tai Chi 13 — a form I know well, or at least one I believed I did. It’s a form I’m comfortable with, familiar enough to feel like home.

Or so I thought.

When I finished, I looked to him instinctively, hoping for some small sign — confirmation that the work is paying off, that progress is happening, that the hours matter.

Even after all of my home-made doctoring last night, I woke to the same pain and stiffness. There was no denying it — training wasn’t an option today. So it was time to visit the TCM doctor.

As expected, the moment I showed him my foot, he placed a finger directly on the pain point. No hesitation. He just knew. Yet, as always, the first needle he pushed into me was nowhere near the injury.

Right foot injured.
Left hand worked on.

It never stops amazing me how the body functions, and how deeply these doctors understand its connections. As the session unfolded, I could feel tension, stress, and anxiety slowly draining away. That familiar sense of quiet returning. From there came the hot mud wrap — thick, heavy, and warm — followed by more needles, this time into the foot itself. Not enjoyable, but unquestionably necessary.

I have a modest, simple dream.
It’s been the same since I began this journey.

To make it through a full week without getting injured.

Monday morning arrived with promise. I felt good — loose, strong, smiling. For a moment, I even let myself think: maybe this is the week. Maybe this small, unreasonable dream might finally be realised.

The session was going well. Movement felt clean, effort felt honest, and then — just like that — it ended with me limping away, back to my room, assessing the damage.

The weekend moved slowly, as if time itself is affected by the cold of winter. I found a way to be productive without pushing too hard — a bit of writing in the warmth of a local café, where I also met a kind couple from England studying an hour away.

All in all, it was a good weekend. Small steps forward, taken while still carrying the weight of the past — which at times feels like a river of mistakes flowing relentlessly toward the future, always trying to pull you back under.

That will not be happening.

I often wonder why I sit out in the cold of night watching the coaches train. It’s not especially comfortable, and there is nothing required of me there. Still, I return night after night.

There are a few reasons.
First, I like seeing what is possible — not as a fantasy, but as something real and earned. Second, even though their movement appears effortless, almost gifted, the truth is obvious if you look long enough: the ease is the result of years spent making the hard feel ordinary and the impossible feel familiar. And third — the part that matters most to me — they are still students. Still training. Still refining. Still showing up.

It’s been a very tiring week.
That much is undeniable.

But the feeling pulled me into a familiar line of questioning — one I seem unable to resist. If I keep focusing on how tired I feel, am I reinforcing it? Am I feeding the thing I’m trying to understand? And if that’s true, then what role does effort actually play?

I don’t know the answer. I’m not even sure there is one. But I do know that attention has weight, and wherever it settles, something begins to grow.

Some fatigue is physical — earned, unavoidable. This might well be that kind of tiredness. Still, I can’t ignore the sense that my focus has been circling the feeling itself, replaying it, giving it more space than it deserves.

The new year has started slowly.

The cold persists, the days feel short, and even when the sun shows up, it doesn’t stay long. Injuries keep arriving too — shoulder, hip — like familiar songs on an old radio station. You don’t hate them, but you recognise them the moment they start playing.

Nothing feels serious. More like overuse, accumulation, the quiet cost of repetition. I’ll ease back for a few days and see what changes. The new form has been asking different questions of my body, pulling it into unfamiliar places. Every form does this eventually. It doesn’t matter how many miles you’ve logged — wear and tear always finds you.

Today was cold, but enjoyable.

I’m studying my new form, Xing Yi, in a small group — something I’ve done a couple of times now. I think I like the smaller groups. You get more time with the coaches, more direct correction, more clarity. What I don’t love is the chatter that comes with it.

Maybe it’s because I don’t understand the language — that part is on me — but the constant talking feels like it burns time. And, as with all group activities, you can only move as fast as the slowest pace in the room. Normally I would find that frustrating, but today I didn’t mind too much. I’m feeling a little sore, a little flat, and that makes patience easier to find.

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.