Not just a sport of kicks and fast movement

Taekwondo, to many people, is a sport of kicks and fast movement. To me, it became a language I learned with my body before I understood it with my mind. Every kick taught me balance. Every block taught me timing. Every step taught me control. At first, the poomsae looked like beautiful movements in order. With time, I realised that each one carried meaning. Sparring taught me how to face pressure without panic. Drills taught me patience. Conditioning taught me how to continue when comfort asked me to stop. Slowly, Taekwondo stopped feeling like techniques. It began to feel like a way to understand myself through movement.

Taekwondo entered my life at a time when I thought I already knew myself. I believed I understood my limits, my reactions, my patience, and my control. I later learned that much of that was only theory. Before Taekwondo, I reacted quickly. I carried impatience without noticing it. I avoided discomfort whenever I could. Failure felt personal. It felt like it questioned my value. Like many people, I wanted quick results. I wanted effort to stay hidden. Taekwondo refused all of that. It slowed everything down. It removed excuses. It placed me in front of repetition, correction, delay, and discomfort. And in that slow process, I began to change.

At first, I thought I was learning how to fight. What I learned instead was how to stay still under pressure. I learned how to breathe when frustration tried to take control. I learned how to lose without anger. I learned how to succeed without ego. These lessons did not stay inside the dojang. They followed me into my work. Into my family life. Into my conversations. I listened more. I interrupted less. I waited longer before reacting.

The moment that made me truly pause was my recent visit to the GTTF in South Korea. I did not go there as a tourist. I went as a practitioner. What I saw there reached deep inside me. I saw children training with a seriousness that many adults struggle to carry. I saw seniors move with calm confidence. Strength did not need to announce itself. I saw discipline lived, not explained. For the first time, my training felt connected to its roots. I sensed its deeper spirit. Standing there, far from home, I felt responsibility more than excitement. I realised that Taekwondo had already changed how I measured myself. I stopped comparing myself to others. I began to compare myself to who I was yesterday. I was no longer afraid of falling. I grew more afraid of stopping. The noise inside my mind softened. The voice of patience grew steadier.

None of this growth happened without guidance. I speak here with deep respect about my Grand Master Harib al Abdali. He never built students through loud motivation. He shaped them through calm consistency. Through careful correction. Through presence that never rushed development. From him, I learned that strength does not need to intimidate. It needs to stabilise. As a Dan 8, he carries rank along with responsibility, restraint and trust passed across generations.

Through Pro Martial Arts and Fitness Academy in Muscat, I saw how this approach shaped many lives beyond my own. I saw young boys and girls arrive, unsure of themselves. I saw them slowly stand with confidence. I saw teenagers who once carried anger learn self-control. I saw adults who had lost belief in their bodies begin again with quiet determination. What happens there is not loud. It is steady. It is quiet. It is real.

As for me, Taekwondo did not make me perfect. It made me clearer. It showed me where I rush. It showed me where I resist change. It showed me where fear hides behind confidence. It also taught me that discipline is not punishment. Discipline is permission. Permission to grow without drama. Permission to fall without shame. Permission to rise without noise.

Today, when pressure enters my life, I face it differently. I stand inside it longer. I breathe. I decide. That change affected my relationships. It affected my work. It affected how I carry responsibility. The biggest transformation Taekwondo gave me was not in strength or speed. It was in restraint, patience, and self-awareness.

To the young generation, I say this with sincerity. Taekwondo shapes the body and the reactions that follow. It builds respect for effort. It shapes how you fail. It shapes how you succeed. In a world that pushes speed and shortcuts, Taekwondo teaches how to grow without rushing and how to stand without shouting.

I entered Taekwondo searching for fitness. I remained because I found character. I travelled to Korea to attend a festival. I returned carrying a deeper responsibility toward the values that Taekwondo planted inside me. This journey changed more than what I do. It changed how I respond. How I endure. How I wait. How I respect.

And quietly beneath all of that change, gratitude remains anchored to the teacher who first taught me how to bow sincerely, correct myself without pride, and rise again without bitterness.

Dr Khalfan al HarrasinThe author is an academic and researcher