I Quit

I walked into my first Tae Kwon Do class to learn self-defense.

I was 19 years old.

I’d been attacked.

Never again would I go down without a fight.

I trained like a warrior.

We ran in circles. Then the other way.

We ran backwards.

We skipped. We hopped.

We jumped, knees to chest,100 times. And again.

We did 50 pushups. Then again.

I kicked and punched.

I once broke a board with a spinning hook kick, blindfolded.

I sparred, eventually able to score on much taller, bigger, stronger people than I.

I came -- angry and afraid -- for the self-defense.

I stayed -- for 23 years -- absorbed by my passion for the art-form.

As I reclaimed the dignity that had been stolen by my attackers, I fell in love with my savior.

Before long it was a marriage.

I eventually becoming a 3rd degree black belt.

I was an expert by all accounts.

I was a role model to many -- especially women.

I loved being an inspiration.

My loyalty to the art that had saved me was unshakable.

Until I realized that my very loyalty was undermining my self-worth.

As many a perfectionist knows, you're never really good enough.

And my master instructor was also a master manipulator.

He was expert at injecting just enough self-doubt into my practice to ensure that I’d need his validation.

I was terrified to fall from the top, and he made sure I felt that instability every day.

My values of dedication and commitment began to work against me.

My relationship to Tae Kwon Do had become an unhealthy one, based on guilt, obligation and the message that I was never good enough, could never do enough for the school.

Quitting is for the weak, I thought. But I'd lost sight of the power within me.

While the posture of self-defense had served me well in the world, I yearned to experience trust.

I yearned to put my guard down.

So, one day, after much deliberation, I faced my master instructor.

With a desk between us, in his small office, I told him I was leaving.

My teacher leaned forward. "You don't know everything," he said, wagging his finger at me.

But my yearning to experience my life beyond the lens of self-protection was greater than his attempts to make me feel small.

I was ready to open my heart.

To try something new.

To grow.

I quit.

I quit, despite my teacher's attempts to disempower me.

I quit, despite his wagging finger.

I quit, despite the disappointment of others.

I walked out into that cold, grey, January afternoon, as a free agent.

I began the long process of reclaiming myself.

I quit, because in the end there is nothing more worthy than duty to oneself.