Seven straight days of training have come to an end, and I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck that didn’t slow down out of courtesy.

The body is done. Completely.

And with the end of this week comes the end of the Chinese year. For some reason, this New Year’s Eve feels different — more relevant, more aligned with where I actually stand.

Perhaps it’s the immersion.

The Western calendar now feels like something glimpsed from a passing train window — still there, still real, but no longer central to my rhythm. This winding road I’m on has no clear destination, yet I continue moving toward something that feels important, even if I struggle to define it.

The goal remains blurry.

It’s been a long week.

Six days straight of revisiting two Wushu forms — Baji Fist and Xuan Wu Quan. Both physical. Both demanding. Both unwilling to let you hide.

I’ve loved the narrow focus. There’s something powerful about stripping everything back and committing fully to just two forms. But the truth is, it’s been tough turning up day after day to the same intensity.

The body feels it.

And yet, I wouldn’t change it.

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.

I’ve been back at school for two days, and I’m happy to report that everything hurts.

Shoulders. Hips. Ankles. A deep, familiar tiredness wrapping itself around me like an old companion who never truly leaves.

And strangely, it makes me happy.

I haven’t started anything new. Instead, I’ve returned to two fast forms — Xuan Wu Quan and Baji Quan. Both demanding. Both unforgiving. Both beautiful in their own direct, uncompromising way.

Yes, learning them the second time is easier. The body recognises patterns more quickly. The mind anticipates transitions.

But practice is no less brutal.

The sun was shining, but it still felt like winter.

Today unfolded slowly — the kind of gentle day that carries no great expectations. That was, of course, until an old friend appeared out of nowhere.

I hadn’t seen her in nearly two years. Suddenly she was back in town with her dance students and, for reasons still unclear to me, thought it would be a good idea to film TikTok dance videos.

Now, I know many things. One of them is that I cannot dance.

But when greeted with a kind smile and an enthusiastic request, I find it very hard to say no.

And so we began.

Day one of the second six months begins — or at least, that is how it feels.

Walking back through the school gates last night, I didn’t need words to tell me I was where I belonged. My body knew before my mind caught up. My heart rate slowed. My shoulders dropped. My nervous system, which had been humming quietly for two weeks, finally exhaled.

That was all the confirmation I needed.

I slept deeply — the kind of sleep that only comes when something inside you feels settled.

“Welcome home.”

Two simple words, spoken softly as I crossed the border back into China.

And just like that, something inside me lifted.

I hadn’t realised how heavy I had been carrying myself over the last two weeks until that moment. The lightness was immediate. A grin I couldn’t suppress. A quiet surge of relief moving through my body.

So I think it’s true.

China is home.

Yesterday I really tried to enjoy Hong Kong as a tourist. I wandered for hours, camera in hand, attempting to let the world move around me without attachment.

On the surface, it worked. I walked for nearly six hours. I saw plenty. I took photos.

But the truth is, I didn’t enjoy it.

It wasn’t wasted time — just time spent in a version of life that doesn’t resonate with me. Hong Kong rises in steel and glass, a vertical world where people move quickly through narrow spaces between ambition and necessity. Everyone seems busy. Busy doing what, I’m not entirely sure. Most faces are angled downward, lit by the soft glow of a screen.

I slept like a king last night.

Maybe it was exhaustion.
Maybe it was relief.
Or maybe it was simply the comfort of having a plan.

For the first time in weeks, there is direction. Two more days in Hong Kong, then back to China. Back to training. Back to rhythm.

It’s amazing how much easier the mind rests when it senses forward motion.

Today was a rollercoaster.

This morning, over coffee, the email finally came through.

Refused.

No drama. No explanation beyond a brief note: too many student visas in a row. No written rule. Just a decision. Final.

For a few moments, I panicked.

I started searching for alternatives immediately — Jakarta, another application, another route. But it seems the system now speaks globally. Doors that once felt open may not be anymore. Three months, maybe more.

My life feels suspended at the moment.

Six working days have passed, and there has been no movement on the visa. I’ve called. I’ve asked. The response is simple: be patient.

I am just not sure where patience ends and passivity begins.

This “quick” visa run is costing time, energy, and certainty. Bureaucracy has a way of making you feel small — like your life is paused while someone else decides when it may resume.

This morning I felt it properly. The worry. The frustration. The creeping uncertainty about what comes next.

A simple Sunday as a tourist was exactly what I needed.

I walked for hours with a camera in hand, drifting through the busy streets of Hong Kong alongside millions of others doing much the same. There was something strangely calming about moving anonymously through the crowd, just observing, framing, noticing.

By sunset, I was exhausted in the best possible way — legs heavy, mind quiet — yet when I finally lay down, sleep refused to arrive. I tossed and turned into the early hours.

If I’m honest, I suspect the visa sits quietly behind it all. Not the paperwork itself, but the waiting. The lack of movement. The not knowing.

That brings an end to a week of waiting in Hong Kong. And since nothing seems to be moving, I might as well become a tourist for the weekend.

I’m not sure what I’ll do. Maybe just get lost in the sprawl of the city. There are worse ways to pass the time.

I practised today, partly to shake off the frustration of a morning writing session that didn’t go the way I expected. That’s fine. Some days feel slightly misaligned — or perhaps it’s just me who feels that way right now.

Another day in Hong Kong passed much like the others. Moments slid by almost unnoticed, stitching themselves together into a thin fabric of routine that feels oddly foreign to me.

People move with purpose. They are busy, heading somewhere, doing something. I watch them while I wait — waiting to return to what I know, to what gives me focus and a sense of direction.

It’s not bad here. It’s just not my kind of good.

There is laughter, conversation, movement. And I find myself slightly detached from it all, not fully belonging here, yet temporarily removed from the place I now call home.

Today I finally caved.

I moved from training in twenty-dollar shoes to something far more expensive — not out of desire, but necessity. The shoes I’ve been wearing have been crushing my toes together, creating a constant ache in my left foot that I can no longer ignore.

So I did it. I invested in two pairs of barefoot shoes with wide toe boxes. From the moment I put them on, they felt right. Comfortable. Spacious. I’m hoping they give my left foot the time and room it needs to stop screaming for attention.

Still no movement on the visa. The waiting game continues, dull at best. For now, I think the best thing I can do is walk, camera in hand, and see what presents itself.

I have to admit that I’ve been in a strange mood since arriving in Hong Kong — one I haven’t felt in many months.

I think the feeling has risen simply because I don’t want to be here. Everything feels heavy, and each step stirs memories of a past I no longer want. I’m doing what I can to keep my head above water, yet an ache lingers, slowing me down, quietly pressing me to conform to a rhythm that makes little sense to me. And yet here I am, waiting for a visa so I can return to what I know, understand, and enjoy.

I know it shouldn’t matter where I am or what I’m doing. But the truth is, every moment spent away from what you love can feel like a moment you’ll never get back.

The first day in Hong Kong has left me feeling a little frayed around the edges. Being back in a large, crowded city that moves with an urgency I don’t understand is not something I love. Added to that, I am applying for a new visa — something I hate to admit is a new experience for me — and it has made me more nervous than I would like. Anyone who knows me knows that this kind of real-world administration is not my strong suit.

When I stopped in a park for a moment, I noticed how tired I felt — more tired than after any full day of training. It made me wonder if life in Wudang has been quietly supplying me with a constant flow of energy, and whether the pace of a concrete jungle now drains it away.

I don’t know the answer. It was just a question that passed through my mind in a brief pocket of calm.

Today marks the end of my first six months at the school. I still have a year to go, but it feels important to pause and honestly acknowledge the small steps that brought me here.

If I’m being truthful, I would have liked to have progressed further. I’m human, and expectation has a way of creeping in, quietly distorting reality. Desire can be a loud companion if left unchecked.

That said, I am pleased with how far I’ve come — not because of any single breakthrough, but because of the steady weight of effort applied day after day. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, improvement has arrived.

This week, training has become a little routine — by design.

I am working my way toward Hong Kong, moving through the final stages of ankle recovery, and trying to reach the end of the week without collecting another injury. So far, it’s working.

I’ve returned to Tai Chi sword and have been making small but meaningful steps forward. I don’t know why this kind of progress still surprises me, but it does. Every step, every thrust, every transition improves in a way that quietly pulls my thoughts toward the six-month review that’s approaching.

Today marked the fourth day in a row of extreme cold.

It’s been manageable — we’ve been training indoors — but today was tough. The kind of cold that feels like it’s settled deep into the bones, where most of your energy is spent simply trying to stay warm enough to move.

Training like this is never easy, but everyone does what they can. I tend to simplify things on days like these, returning to the forms that still — and likely always will — require constant attention. There’s comfort in that familiarity.