How Taekwondo Impacted My Life - Part 1

Taekwondo. Three simple syllables. A martial art. Self-defense. A way of life. The influence of Taekwondo on my life is only surpassed by Jesus Christ, my Savior and Lord, and my incredible family. But those are stories for another day. To fully understand the breadth and depth of impact by Taekwondo, one must first understand from whence I came. To truly appreciate the distance traveled, one must first find the starting line. To completely realize the hurdles overcome, one must recognize the height of those hurdles. It all began with a television commercial.

“Nobody bothers me! Nobody bothers me, either!” Jhoon Rhee Martial Arts. It was the 1970s and I was somewhere under the age of 10. At that moment, I knew I wanted to be a Black Belt. But my parents never called USA-1000. You see, at age 9, I was diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis, a severe digestive system disorder. Instead of Jhoon Rhee, my parents called the doctor. By age 14, the disease took control of my life, robbing me of Ninth and Tenth Grades in High School with friends, and instead landing me in a hospital with doctors and nurses. I loved to act, but instead of being in dramas, I regretfully withdrew as stage manager when my doctor pulled me out of school. I begged my parents to let me stay after school to watch a soccer game with friends, only to rightfully be told I needed to come home and rest. I was a sick girl, with limited friends my age. Later, in my early 20s, the illness forced me to withdraw from the University of Maryland, College Park. This was a heavy blow. It was out of control. My life was under the whim of the disease, which struck nearly every spring and every fall for 8 years. After several month-long hospital stays, countless procedures, and endless medication, I made the decision to have a life-changing operation. In 1992, just a few months shy of my 22nd birthday, the doctors performed a radical surgery, which removed the disease along with the affected organ, but also left the outside of my physical body drastically distorted. Life-changing. I was free of the disease. Hallelujah! I would be sick no longer! Little did I know, oh, so little did I know.

Life-altering indeed. Over the next years, I realized I was still that “sick little girl” who, oddly enough, became comfortable as a patient in hospital Emergency Rooms. Those visits were normal to me. I would have at least 3 additional major abdominal surgeries to remove scar tissue wrapped around my GI tract. The severity of the recurring problem became crystal clear the night the doctors told my husband, “We had to get her off the [operating] table. The next 48 hours are critical. We’ll have to wait and see.” I was never that close to death before or since. All of these experiences, plus many more like it, left me consumed with the idea that I was a “sick person.” I was defined by my medical issues, and I had plenty of them. My friends and family would participate in races and other sports. Sure, I took swimming lessons in college and even played recreational volleyball for a few seasons. But I still saw myself as the weak link, the last one picked, the one people pitied enough to let play. It would be well over a decade later before things started to change.

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Flying Side Kick at my 40th Birthday Party - oh the form! Tons of fun

Fast forward to the summer of 2008. My beautiful daughter Sara discovered her fondness for Taekwondo through two week-long summer camps at Vuong’s Martial Arts. By January 2009, Sara was signed up for full-time classes. Watching her progress through the stripe system awakened the little girl in me again, but not the sick one. “Nobody bothers me!” would whisper in my head. But then, I would hear my doctor counter with, “You need to take it easy” and other voices say, “You can’t possibly do that.” But, “Nobody bothers me, either!” would speak in a louder voice only to hear, “Don’t hurt yourself, honey. Are you sure you want to do that? Won’t that be dangerous in your situation? [referring to my physical condition]” The lessons from my past were deep and strong. But my wonderful husband was never part of those messages. He never held me back from any adventure. And so, in April 2010, we both signed up for Taekwondo lessons. Now, my mindset had not changed, at all. I was not an athlete. I was grateful that Master Chien Vuong was willing to humor me and allow me to take lessons. My first class reinforced my sense of weakness. I had to leave class five times for a break and water. I had no idea how hard of a class it was for everyone else. What I knew was that I could not last even 15 minutes (some of which were spent in meditation). To put perspective on the extent of my non-athleticism, I could not perform even one-half of a push-up. What is one-half of a push-up? That’s when you start on the ground, and then push up. I could not lift myself even a little bit, not even doing the modified push-ups with one’s knees remaining on the ground. I had to start leaning against the arm of my couch, and bending my arms ever so slightly. And even then, I barely managed around five of them. I also could not bicycle one mile. One mile. On the bike. I had to stop for significant rest and water after about one quarter of a mile. On flat terrain. On a bike. And don’t even get me started on my lack of flexibility. That was nearly comical. The decades of illness, extended hospital stays, and multiple surgeries left their mark on me. But it was not only physical weakness that plagued me. You see, I was used to waving the “I’m sick” flag. I grew accustomed to blaming my failures on my illnesses. It was comfortable to throw my history out as excuses for non-performance. After all, when people learned the magnitude of what this body has endured, they understood. And they let me off the hook.

But this time, with Taekwondo, it was different. The little girl was way too excited about fulfilling her dream. The little girl and the adult were also very stubborn…and competitive, albeit usually in the academic realm. Master Chien seemed to have just the right balance of push and release. He did not know my history. And starting a conversation with, “By the way, I’ve had 10 major surgeries and lost major organs. How about you?” is not, generally speaking, the way to begin a lasting friendship. Without the detailed familiarity with my medical chart, Master Chien allowed me no extra favors, only those he would extend any new adult starting classes. He pushed us with grueling work-outs, as I watched with awe from the back of the class, other adults get through 200 flutter kicks without stopping. Someday, I thought to myself. Someday, that will be me.

The first few years pursuing this dream seemed to drag on from an emotional and mental perspective. I struggled greatly with my lack of flexibility, hearing “your kicks need to be a little higher” for the umpteenth time and from nearly every instructor in every class, except Master Chien. He never harped on those type of issues, but knew exactly where to focus my energy to improve where I could at the time. You see, Master Chien was the first person to treat me like I was an athlete, even when I didn’t see it myself. Back then, I was afraid of sparring night for multiple reasons. First, I might get kicked. Second, it might hurt. Third, I might fall and that might hurt. Fourth, I was most likely going to kick someone in the groin because they were too tall for my flexibility. Again, to keep the perspective, if my opponent was my height, that was too tall. But I began sparring anyway. I got kicked. It hurt. I fell. That wasn’t so bad. And I kicked low, but I actually never made contact for quite awhile.

Placeholder for early belt test

I won’t ever forget the nerves from the day I tested for my yellow belt. I was shaking. Looking back, it’s almost amusing as the test is so short. But there I was, scared to death I would make a mistake and be judged unworthy of receiving the belt. But I passed! And I actually didn’t have to redo anything. I started to think maybe I could really do this, after all. I managed to continue earning my stripes, and passing my belt tests. I was getting physically stronger, but the mental fight of “sick girl” vs. “athlete” was still being won by the “sick girl” more often. It certainly didn’t help when the third major emergency abdominal surgery was scheduled in February, 2013. My health problems would not leave me alone. But that little girl’s dream to be a Black Belt was still there. So, I started training again, as soon as I was cleared by the doctor. Physically speaking, I was stronger than ever before. Of course, that’s not saying much, but I was clearly moving in the right direction.

The big mental game changer began in the fall of that same year, when Master Chien invited me to join the Vuong’s Competition Team. Master Chien’s philosophy of giving everyone a chance to be great worked in my favor! You see, I was certainly not a “shoo-in” for greatness, but I did know how to work hard. So the Saturday morning of team try-outs, I was excited and ready to go! But reality smacked me upside the head and flattened me to the ground. The first team tryouts whipped my butt and nearly broke my spirit. I was in tears before we hit the 30-minute mark, and there were hours left to go. I was grateful for wearing the full dobok so I could hide during the mountain climbers and therefore hide the tears streaming down my face from the sheer pain in my muscles. I’d never experience something so physically demanding before. Had I made the right decision to join the team? Maybe? The fact is that I feared quitting and having to face Master Chien more than what lay ahead. Simply quitting the team is one thing. But telling Master Chien I wanted to quit was an entirely different realm of difficult. He expects the best from his students, and he knows our best is beyond what we think we are capable of. So, I kept going. The ability to make it through difficult workouts over and over not only built my muscles, but my brain was feeling satisfied in the accomplishments. Maybe I was an aspiring athlete, after all.

Nationals 2014 - Only Coaching

But remember that medical history? Just a few months later in April 2014, I was diagnosed with gallstones. And surgery was scheduled…again. Because of all the other surgeries, laparoscopy was not an option. And so, the long recovery from a 6-inch opening across my right side began. My very first Nationals was not going to happen. The doctors wouldn’t clear me. Another setback. Another chance for a comeback story. I was so tired of comeback stories. So very, very tired. My entire life seemed like one long, never-ending comeback story. Was it worth it? It’s so hard to have your achievements ripped away and have to start all over again. The “I’m sick” flag was totally legit, but the question remained: how long would I wave it?

Indomitable spirit – a tenet of Taekwondo. Impossible to subdue. Not capable of being conquered. Master Chien was immersed in this philosophy as he grew up in the Taekwondo world. And then he taught this philosophy for over 25 years. I believe this is why he never asked me IF I was coming back to class. Instead, it was WHEN are you coming back to class. Master Chien’s refusal to give up on me pushed me to mentally commit to things that I wasn’t sure were possible (like coming back to class, in this case). At this point, I was a green belt and had accomplished so much. After all, I completed 20 push-ups for the green belt test with ease. That was pretty cool considering my starting number of zero. So, I came back, and slowly regained my cardio. My indomitable spirit was growing.

After earning my blue belt and competing in the 2015 Nationals, and not surprisingly, losing my sparring match 7-0, my mental game took a step back. My opponent could kick to the head, and I still lacked the flexibility to do so. I also lacked the leg strength to land a scoring kick to the body. My mental state was clearly evident to Master Chien when, in the final resting time, he coached me to go out and do speed kicks. My reply, which shall live in infamy, “I can’t do that, sir.” Well, at least I was respectful. He was less than pleased with my response. I was face-to-face with another one of my biggest fears: being coached to do something I didn’t think I could do. You see, when your mentality is that you can’t, you always fear that you won’t. You’re reconciled that others quietly label you as weak, as incapable, and you interpret every action through those abnormally filtered lenses. Even though I was physically stronger than I had ever been, this mental struggle was still simmering inside. Despite this struggle, I had no intention of quitting the team. I’m stubborn, remember? I loved being part of the team practices and I loved that I had a new appreciation for what Sara went through during competitions (which made me a better Taekwondo Mom, too). The training the next year continued to push me beyond my limits. I found myself accomplishing things I never thought possible, like beating Miss Jackie in sprints during training, not being the last one to finish 10 sprints across the room, and finally landing a head kick. I was still determined for “Nobody to bother me”.

Landing my first head kick at Nationals (I’m in Blue, by the way)

Sara would be testing for her Black Belt soon, so I began extra training with her to meet the 8-minute mile requirement. It’s amazing how motherhood can be a motivator. I was at the top of my game, so far. I was starting to really believe in myself. Before I knew it, I was testing for my red belt. 40 push-ups. Check. Blocks. Check. Kicks. Check. Forms. Check. Speed kicks. Check. It was the hardest test yet, but for the first time, I actually felt like the belt I was about to earn. The test was just a formality. That competition year was amazing. My mental game was on. I started winning matches. It was weird. I was an athlete. I mean, really. Like a legit athlete. Others started noticing I wasn’t as easy to spar anymore. That red belt around my waist made another click in my brain. I told myself, “people will expect you to act a certain way, so you’d better do it.” The confidence began rolling in and was at an all-time high during Nationals that year. I accomplished something I’d never accomplished before. I kicked a lady in the face. 3 times. That same one that beat me the year before. After the first shot, I heard my cheering section roar and another click happened in my brain. A few minutes later, I was a Gold medalist. The National Champion in 2016. It was glorious. Indomitable spirit, indeed.

Black Belt Test: Back Side Kick Speed Kicks
The end of 9 minutes of non-stop kicking

But the Black Belt test was still to come that fall. I really was at the top of my game now. A few months later, I would run an 8-minute mile for the first time in my life. I would conquer 60 push-ups. The morning of the test, my adrenaline was ridiculously high. I was sick to my stomach, excited, freaked out, shaking, the whole works. It certainly didn’t help that Master Chico, Master Chien’s instructor, was there to help officiate the test. And Master CJ and Master Joe. A time to shine or a time to falter? I so badly wanted to shine. I wanted to make Master Chien proud in front of his mentor and contemporaries. But with a colder than normal morning, I started off faltering. My former 8-minute mile fell to 9 minutes 27 seconds. “Are you sure this is a good idea,” whispered in my ear. “Nobody bothers me,” I shouted back. Nobody trained harder for their Black Belt test than I had. I’d been actively training for 2 years! The push-ups were next. I killed those. “See? Nobody bothers me.” Oh man, did my shoulders hurt. And I was still so sick to my stomach. And that’s how the next few hours were spent. Trying not to throw up while keeping up with the counts. My brain was in a fog. My body about to collapse. There was no feeling of accomplishment after a form done well. No feeling of pride when I completed all of my self-defense and one-step sparring. No top of my game when I walked into Miss Jackie’s back side kick and nearly cursed in front of everyone. Sure, I broke my brick and that was a relief. But, the red belt test was nothing compared to this. I had physically prepared, but I wasn’t prepared. I hadn’t owned the test like I was supposed to. Did I even deserve a Black Belt? I was sure that I didn’t. I felt like a fraud.

How has Taekwondo impacted my life? To be sure, my physical fitness is far greater than I’d ever imagined it could be. My mental growth was astounding, to be sure. But after the Black Belt test was over, I felt defeat. I’d let myself down. I’d let Master Chien down. I was supposed to feel great. I wanted to be alone. It took me awhile to realize the truth. The Black Belt test has little to do with knowledge of skills. If one doesn’t know the skills, they won’t be invited to test. The test is designed to exhaust you before it really starts. The Black Belt test is about who will keep going and trying to the very end. Who won’t give up. Who keeps pushing even when their world is crumbling. Who has the mental capacity to exceed their physical limits. The Black Belt test isn’t for people who want a Black Belt. It’s for people who are a Black Belt. I realized I don’t own a Black Belt. I am a Black Belt. Indomitable spirit. Perseverance. Self-control. I possess each of these now in some measure that I would never have known, were it not for Taekwondo. Physical health, mental growth, lifelong friends, a unique bond with my daughter. All possible because of a catchy jingle from the 1970s, a daughter who fell in love with martial arts, a supportive husband, and a dedicated, encouraging instructor. Do I still have room for improvement? Undeniably, yes. But then again, I’m also not done with Taekwondo.

Alicia’s 1st Dan Black Belt Ceremony (Daughter’s 2nd Dan) with Master Chien, Owner of Vuong’s Martial Arts