What I Learned From A Punch To The Stomach

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I’ve been thinking a lot about why people (including myself) who have graduated from university all have that thing about them. It’s a mix of not having enough experience and too much going on in their heads. This, when thrown into a work situation, makes a stubborn employee who can’t do the job but seems to know more about the job than anyone.

This is what I’d like to call the know-it-all bias, and it doesn’t just apply to graduates. It also haunts people who want to know everything before taking a step, making things more complicated than they need to be. And, of course, this bias held me back in many ways. Normally, my impulse is to read through the world before stepping into it.

But then, a punch in the stomach by a karate black belt snapped me out of it.

About a month ago, I struggled to find a regular exercise routine. I fell off the gym wagon after 1: a wisdom teeth extraction surgery and 2: a stomach flu that shrunk me down an EU size. Besides that, I realised that I not only needed physical exercise but a hobby to keep me from going insane.

What followed was a whole week of pacing around my room, trying to find anything that counted as a hobby. I dusted off a trumpet I bought from Facebook Marketplace and got bored with swollen lips. I bought a new journal and hounded a filmmaker friend for movie recommendations and just as I put aside my diary after scribbling a long-demented rant, Netflix decided to queue the trailer for Kobra Kai. I turned my head to the TV and couldn’t look away until 2 am the next day.

“Where can I find a good dojo around here?” I picked up my partner after work, and we were on our way to pick up some McDonald’s drive-through. “There’s one around the corner from my house. I took a few self-defence lessons there and you’ll like the Sensei.” That night, after stuffing a box of 10 chicken nuggets down my throat, I looked up the dojo and signed up straight away.

I opened the dojo’s door to my first training session and wanted to drive home. Four kids, all with blue belts, pulled the moves I saw from Kobra Kai as they sparred with smiles on their faces. A few of them turned their heads my way, saw all 5’11 of me and chuckled at my white belt. I fixed my eyes on the ground, shoved my bag in the locker and expected to get my ass kicked by 12-year-olds.

The Sensei met my eyes and walked over to greet me with an all-black Gi. He wore a ponytail with salt and pepper hair and carried a few scuff marks on his fist. “Welcome, are you Robin?” I said yes. After a long chat about class basics and schedule, he walked over to the mat, asked me to follow him and we both bowed before the training session began.

I realised, very quickly, that my usual "read through the world before entering it" routine did not fly at all in a dojo. The first few sessions had my arms and legs in impossible positions, and at times I wondered if I had accidentally wandered into a yoga studio next door. There was no theory, just drills I needed to perform with absolute precision.

Sometimes, I wondered why the drills were necessary. Why did I tuck in my arms when I kicked? Why did I swing my shoulders when I punched? But the demanding moves left no space for thinking. I was just following orders, one move at a time, placing complete trust in my Sensei. Then, on a regular Thursday evening training session, sensei told us to stand around in a circle. “Now, the person on your left will throw a real punch”, he said, “this time, just let go.”

Just let go? I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Before I had time to react, Sensei threw a punch straight at me. I shut my eyes, fully expecting a bloody nose and a patch of purple under an eye. But then, I opened my eyes and realised that I had pushed Sensei to the side while locking his arm.

The whole class started cheering, “This kid’s doing karate!” Sensei turned around with a smile and then, another punch! The same thing happened. My body remembered the drills, blocking the punch with no effort. This time, I got a little cocky and started to lose my form, and before I could wipe that smile off of my face, a lower punch came straight for my stomach...

A muted thud. I took a few steps back, but surprisingly, there was no pain. “Did you tense your abs?” Sensei asked. I nodded, and then the punch went around the circle, coming back to the same spot on my stomach again and again. Ten minutes later, the punches formed a bruise on my belly. “This is called conditioning”, Sensei smirked, “smile through the pain.”

I drove home that night with a tender patch on my belly, but I was thrilled. I’m slowly getting it. See, with a martial art like karate, fancy movements and theory are useless. The real test of your ability is when you’re forced to react when a fist is flying towards your face.

The same is true with everything else. Theory and understanding might chart out a map when you’re lost, but the quickest way to know where you’re going is to take the first step and then adjust your compass. The map is not the territory, and unfortunately, book learning only teaches us how to draw maps without ever nudging us into the field.

But when just enough theory pushes you to act, your environment will give you immediate feedback. In karate, it’s a kick coming for your crotch. In business, it looks like people hurrying past your organic lemonade stand. And in love, it’s your date leaning away from an ill-timed kiss. Know-it-alls are usually deathly afraid of this immediate feedback, because it throws all their pet theories about how the world should be out the window.

Then, there's a choice: should we hold onto our theories and grow into a grouch, or should we invite them with open arms and slowly learn to block a kick, patiently tweak the recipe of that lemonade and gradually grow into a better lover? Challenges will come, but on the other side of feedback and practice is a beautiful simplicity, because now your actions are informed by that muscle memory you can’t acquire from books.

But to get there, we have to invite those punches in our stomachs over and over, and like my sensei said, “This is conditioning”, he smirked, “smile through the pain”.  

Until next week

Robin