Ashes to Black Belt

 

Ashes to Black Belt

Until 2015, almost every decision in my life was made for me by someone else.

From my earliest memories, my success was defined by how well I performed for others—how perfectly I met the expectations they set for me. When I was two years old, my mother placed a tiny violin in my hands and told me that her dream was for me to become a famous violinist. From that moment on, my life unfolded like a score I never got to write.

I was treated like a wind-up virtuoso china doll: to be seen and not heard. Trotted out to perform at every family occasion without regard for my feelings or desires. I was expected to be perfect, submissive, docile. And I was. The few times I asked to quit violin, I was immediately dismissed. Everyone assumed I must secretly love it if I was so good at it. My childhood revolved entirely around music—no sports, no free play, no unrelated activities. By middle school, I was waking up at 5 a.m. daily to practice violin and piano before school, with more lessons and ensembles in the evening. I learned discipline and focus, but not joy or self-expression.

By age six, I was performing professionally with adult orchestras—sometimes outshining even my teachers. It was a strange and lonely thing, being the best at something I didn't even enjoy. At 15, I was awarded a full music scholarship and began college a year later. When I left home to attend the same university, it was less about my own dreams and more about performing the role my mother had scripted for me.

But there, I made my first real independent decision: selecting my first elective class. I needed a gym course and, for reasons I didn't entirely understand at the time, I signed up for karate. Looking back, I think I was drawn to it as a way to channel my anger and take control of some part of my life through my own body. Until then, all my energy had gone into fine motor control—never the freedom of running, jumping, kicking, or punching.

It was strange and exhilarating to move my body in new ways. I had no experience with coordinated physical activity, but I brought the discipline and persistence I'd learned through music. I was always the most focused student in class—not the most naturally athletic, but certainly the most driven. And for the first time, I started to feel strong.

Unfortunately, soon after, I met someone who lovebombed me and led me into what I now recognize was a religious cult. At the time, it felt like an escape from my mother's control. I had no idea I was walking straight into a new, more insidious kind of captivity.

I remained in that cult for twenty years. Every aspect of my life—where I lived, what job I held, who I married—was dictated by "elders." I was placed in homes with married families to provide free childcare, cooking, and cleaning. Later, I entered an arranged marriage. My husband, like the church, saw my role as one of obedience. I wasn't allowed to have a job or money. I wasn't allowed to use birth control and ended up having four children. My role was to be a servant to others. My needs, desires, and personhood were erased.

The cracks in the system came when I recognized the ways the cult's rigid control was harming my young family, and I refused to accept those damaging beliefs. What gave me the strength to leave was not wanting to raise my kids in that environment. I wanted them to know a different way to live. And I realized that Love is the answer—not a controlling religion that oppresses people.

In 2015, I finally left both the cult and my marriage. That decision cracked open the door to healing—but I had no idea how much repair was needed. As I began rebuilding my life, I felt like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon—fragile and unfamiliar in this new space—but also determined to spread my wings. I noticed how disconnected I felt from my own body. My body had been used for other people's needs and expectations, never for myself. I had never been allowed to explore physical activity for my own enjoyment. I had no real sense of what it felt like to occupy space with confidence or to move with joy. Even movement itself wasn't freedom—it was something dictated by others.

As I continued my healing journey, I learned that trauma isn't just in the mind—it's stored in the body. Healing, then, must involve more than just the mind; it requires reconnecting with and reclaiming the physical self. That understanding, combined with a deep longing to return to the martial arts that had once represented my first real choice, drew me back.

That's what led me to taekwondo. I wanted to return to the one thing that had ever truly felt like mine. I needed a goal—one grounded in strength, agency, and self-determination. I wanted to see what I could build when the drive came from within. I was ready to turn pain into power.

Taekwondo has taught me more than just how to punch and kick. Physically, I've developed strength, balance, and spatial awareness I never had as a child. I'm more attuned to where my body is in space and time (though I still sometimes think my leg is straight when it's not, or that my hand is shoulder-height when it clearly isn't. 😂)

Mentally, taekwondo has helped me make peace with imperfection. It’s okay not to be the best at something. I can just keep showing up as I am, mistakes and all, and try again. In doing this work, I’m literally retraining my nervous system. Every time I show up with my imperfections, I’m proving to that scared part of myself that mistakes are not only safe—they’re the path forward. My body is learning what my mind already knows: that I can be imperfect and still be worthy, still belong, still keep going. I’ve learned the quiet satisfaction of choosing a path, sticking with it, and seeing where it leads. And I’ve developed a healthy dose of humility—because, honestly, who doesn’t love embarrassing themselves in front of a room full of teenagers three times a week?

In taekwondo, one tenet resonates deeply with me: indomitable spirit. It's not just an ideal—it's like my heartbeat. It's the reminder that I can be knocked down, make mistakes, feel uncertain—and still get back up. My spirit has been battered, bent, and bruised, but never broken. Each kick, each form, each time I tie my belt and bow into class is an act of reclaiming. Not for applause, not for anyone else's dream—but because I can. Because I want to. Because I have finally chosen myself.

A friend calls me "Phoenix," and the nickname has felt deeply poignant ever since I began rebuilding my life. It's not lost on me that the name of my school—Fenix Martial Arts Academy—shares that same symbolism. Every time I walk through its doors, I'm reminded that I'm rising from the ashes of what was. Not just surviving, but reclaiming my life on my own terms—stronger, brighter, and fully, finally free.