“You really should call them yourself and tell them you’ve quit,” my father said, snapping me out of my stupor of lazily scrolling through posts on Instagram on a quiet Sunday afternoon. I gave him a look and pulled myself out of the armchair in the living room of my house, escaping from what was sure to be an obnoxious lecture about commitment, but not escaping the thoughts that followed. A chill feeling of guilt and shame washed over me like a cold shower when I tried unsuccessfully to push the thoughts into the deepest part of my mind. They fought their way to the surface and bobbed up, forcing me to stare them in the face. They started playing like a movie on a video camera and I could do nothing but be pulled under.

Sweat dripped down my forehead in large beads as I struggled to push myself up and down, again and again, in painful and excruciating repetition as the instructor looked over the sea of sweaty children with the calculating eyes of a raven. The sound of heavy breathing coupled with the percussion of hands and feet slapping against the floor to create a quiet rhythm. The cool and springy beige rubber of the mat under my palms came up to meet my face with a smack as I dropped to the floor in exhaustion. I stole a glance in the large mirror that covered the wall and found my face in it, misty-eyed and red as raspberries. I drank in gulping breaths of stale air as I let myself take a moment to rest. Wiping my face with the back of my equally sweaty hand, I stood up shakily and faced my instructor, arching my back in a posture of respect, ready to start the lesson.

My dojo. It’s a place that holds both pride and shame for me, a representation of what was and what could have been. It feels odd thinking about it now, as a place I would visit so often and yet feels so alien to me. I learned and practiced the martial art of karate every week for three, almost four years there. Karate there meant different things to me. It meant pride, in the delicious feeling of satisfaction at the dull sting of my knuckles, red and raw with the friction of my fists slamming into the punching bag which didn’t stand a chance. It meant patience, in stunning silence and discipline and in my own limited physical abilities. It meant humility, in my failures and in respect of those younger than me who knew far more about the art than I thought I did. But now, it meant shame, in the guilt of willingly giving that all up.  

 It’s a small studio, not much bigger than a highschool classroom, with a quarter of the floor covered in dark, scratchy carpet and the rest covered in beige rubber dojo mats. A large ballet studio-esque mirror covers the western wall, which has been marked up and smudged with dry erase records of the students and instructors passing through. Handsomely and carefully painted samurai brandishing their weapons in fierce pride decorate the back wall. Shiny synthetic black leather punching bags stuffed with sand stand ready to be pummeled, along with foam-covered weapons and safety gear. It’s always smelled like plastic and Expo markers mixed with sweat, a mild scent covered with a mixture of air fresheners and circulated around by the large fan positioned in the corner which filled the room with a low hum. The white noise of quiet and sleepy conversation before each lesson starts to play as students and their parents mill about.

On every Tuesday and Thursday, I would don my belt and gi and make the trip to the sports complex in Hamilton County for class. I would often complain about having to go and tried to make excuses to excuse myself, but I really did enjoy going. The lesson would start with a warmup and then we would get to work. We would punch and kick bags, spar with each other, practice using weapons, and run through kata, a set of fighting forms performed in something of a dance to show grace, solidity and power. With every strong punch, kick, and form, karate gave me pride in strength as well as a new sense of security in self-defense. In the beginning I was anxious that I would only make a fool of myself and had the creeping feeling of nervousness each time I went through the low door in the back after climbing the stairs in the complex, but it soon became like second nature to me.

Being able to accomplish those moves had a cost. My legs would often be sore for days afterwards, especially in the knees, and I would hobble around like an elderly penguin and almost trip over my feet as I would try to walk without straining my muscles further. I would get purple bruises on my arms where fists and sharp elbows had shocked against them during sparring and my knuckles sometimes would be red and splitting after hitting solid surfaces. However, none of that pain bothered me more than the pain of the physical requirement that I would have to try and force myself to accomplish. Push ups.

I could not for the life of me do them correctly. It hurt too much. The muscles in my arms would seize up and become paralyzed with pain as if someone had driven metal stakes through them, forcibly holding them still. My wrists would scream in protest as I would try to force my sweaty palms into the unyielding rubber of the mat. I couldn’t get through a single rep without holding my breath to force all of my energy into the action so it often made me lightheaded. And we were required to do fifty of them. It’s not the only reason I quit, but it certainly was a factor.

Looking back, I think I just gave up. I probably could have trained up my muscles better if I put more effort in, but it just wasn’t worth it for me. It was both physically and mentally exhausting to compare myself to the little ten-year-olds with energy levels rivaling that of squirrels who could speed through all fifty push ups without breaking so much as a sweat while I struggled to do even one properly. I couldn’t move forward. I quit.

 I just decided to stop going to practice. I was frustrated with myself and with the program, and I was performing worse and worse on things I had no problem accomplishing before and had less and less motivation to go. I quit without saying goodbye.

    I do have fond memories of my dojo, despite the struggle of my eventual failure. I loved the feeling of finishing a difficult kata for the first time and being complimented by my sensei. I loved the happiness I felt each time I would exchange my belt for a brand new one with a darker color, symbolizing my growth. I loved the feeling of the cold, hard wood of the nunchaku (nunchucks) in my hands as I twisted and spun them skillfully around me and seeing my face flushed with adrenaline in that big mirror. I miss those feelings now. I feel ashamed for giving up on myself, but also giving up on the people who tried to teach me and learn with me. I feel ashamed for not trying to explain myself before I left. But I don’t regret stopping. It became a chore for me, and no longer gave me joy. I knew I just couldn’t continue.

Even if I never step foot onto that mat again and feel the coolness of it against my bare toes, I can always remember what I loved about it, and always have the experience of what I didn’t.

I walked back into the room where my dad sat, ignoring his accusatory stare from my previous departure. “Okay,” I said with a defeated sigh, “I’ll tell them.”