A Martial Artist’s Reflection on Ownership and Integrity
Training in Martial arts are often likened to a journey—a path of discipline, growth, and self-discovery. We bow in. We train hard. We reflect deeply and We speak of “walking the path” as something sacred. And in many ways, it is. But in the recent past someone reached out to me in distress. A fellow martial artist. A student of another Dojo/Organisation.
He was being bullied—not by peers, but by his own instructor.
He came looking for Advice/guidance. I know you’re probably asking, “Why me?”—but we’ll keep that for another day. Now their dilemma wasn’t about technique or forms, but about how to move forward when the very place meant to build them up was becoming the place that was breaking them down.
It was painful to hear—and powerful to witness and I was/am impressed that the individual plucked up the courage to reach out for help as many don’t ask and probably just quit. But it sparked a deeper question in me:
Whose journey is it, really?
The Individual Path
When we step into the dojo for the first time, it can feel deeply personal, apart from all the other emotions.
Every bow, every technique, every failure and success—it feels like ours. We measure progress by our own milestones. We tell ourselves, “This is my journey.”
And it was/is.
No one can train for you. No one can push through frustration or fear on your behalf. The growth, the grit, the insight—it comes from within.
But what happens when someone else tries to take ownership of your path? When authority becomes abuse? When your personal growth is stunted not by your own limitations, but by someone else’s ego?
We Never Walk Alone
This is where the paradox of martial arts reveals itself: the journey is personal, but never walked alone. We’re shaped by our training partners, guided by instructors, and rooted in the traditions passed down to us. We often say martial arts is like a family—but like any family, that can mean healing or harm, depending on how it’s held.
The person who reached out wasn’t looking for sympathy. They were looking for direction. He wanted to reclaim his path. He wanted to know how to keep training without losing himself. How to keep growing when the place he had sought guidance no longer felt safe.
And it made me realize: sometimes, the journey becomes unclear because someone else has tried to take the wheel.
When the Journey Is Hijacked
In healthy dojos, guidance uplifts. Instruction empowers. Challenge leads to growth.
But when power becomes control, when critique turns to cruelty, when tradition becomes an excuse for abuse—the student becomes lost.
We start walking someone else’s version of the path. Trying to meet their expectations. Trying not to anger them. Trying to stay small enough to be safe.
That’s not discipline. That’s domination.
And it has no place in a space that is supposed to be built on respect.
You cannot grow when you are shrinking to survive.
The Danger of Blind Obedience
One of the most dangerous things we can teach—intentionally or not—is blind obedience. Martial arts are rooted in respect. We bow to show humility. We follow tradition to stay grounded. But respect is not the same as submission. And obedience without question is not a virtue—it’s a risk.
When students are conditioned to obey without thinking, they’re taught to override their instincts. To silence their discomfort. To accept harm under the banner of “discipline.” That’s not strength. That’s suppression.
Blind obedience creates a culture where abuse can thrive—because no one is encouraged to question. And in that silence, individuals disappear. Their voices, their instincts, their agency—all traded for the illusion of harmony.
Respect should empower the individual, not erase them.
We must teach students to trust themselves as much as they trust their instructors. To listen not only to commands, but to conscience. That is the kind of discipline that builds character—not just conformity.
Finding the Way Back
The conversation had reminded me: returning to your own journey isn’t always easy—but it’s always possible.
Sometimes it means leaving the dojo you thought you’d be in forever.
Sometimes it means starting again.
Sometimes it means simply remembering: your voice matters. Your experience matters. Your safety matters.
So we must ask ourselves—and help others ask:
Am I walking my path… or someone else’s?
That question can be the beginning of healing. Of reclaiming. Of restarting—not from scratch, but from strength.
Owning the Journey Again
Martial arts should never be a place of fear. It should be a place of trust, growth, and transformation. To anyone struggling under the weight of someone else’s control, I’d like to say this:
Your journey is yours.
Not your instructor’s.
Not your teammates’.
Not the legacy of someone long dead that you feel pressured to uphold.
It’s Yours!!!! .
And you are allowed to protect it. To change it. To walk away from people who do not honour it.
Closing the Circle
The student who reached out isn’t alone. There are most certainly others quietly carrying similar stories. But there are also many of us out here—teachers, students, and peers—who are ready to listen, support, and help you find your way forward.
So when we talk about “the journey” in martial arts, let’s remember:
It’s not just about technique or trophies. It’s about how we walk. Who we walk with. And whether we are becoming the kind of person we set out to be.
And if you ever lose your way—know this:
Your path is still yours. It always was. And it’s worth walking with integrity, with courage, and on your own terms.
Compiled by Shidoin Joe Glavin. 2025.
