Growing up, I always felt small—in size, in presence, and in the world around me. At just three years old, I battled spinal meningitis, an illness that nearly killed me and left me struggling to keep up. By ninth grade, I was barely 4’11”, and when I finally shot up to 5’11” in tenth grade, I still only weighed 98 pounds. That kind of frailty in a tough world breeds one of two things: fear or fight. And I chose to fight.

Anger became my armor, my protection against the world that had given me nothing but isolation. My mother worked long hours to keep us afloat, leaving me to raise myself, and like most kids left to their own devices, I created a reality that was dark, hard, and often reckless. I fought constantly—not for victory, but because I had nothing to lose. Whether it was in wrestling, where I took on the heavyweight as a scrawny 98-pounder, or in everyday life, where I would swing first just to prove I wasn’t afraid, fighting was my language.

Even into adulthood, that fire didn’t die easily. I still remember playing shortstop for the church softball team when an argument over a tag turned into an all-out brawl. It didn’t matter that we were in a church league. It didn’t matter that it was just a game. I reacted the only way I knew how—by fighting. We were both ejected, right there in church softball. Who does that?

Then, I met Mark Ruppert Sensei. He was everything I wasn’t—calm, composed, controlled. A towering man at 6’4” and 260 pounds, and he had never been in a fight. That fascinated me! How could someone that big, that strong, have never needed to fight? At the time, I was going to church and hearing sermons about peace and love, yet when things escalated, there I was swinging like I was the third monkey on my way up to Noah’s Ark—and it was raining*

I started training with Sensei Mark Rubbert in Aikido, a martial art that didn’t just teach martial techniques but a way of thinking, a way of being. I learned to find my center, to breathe, to relax more completely—concepts that seemed foreign to someone wired for conflict. Instead of responding with fists, I learned to respond with control, balance, posture, and awareness. Slowly, the anger that had once defined me began to dissolve. Sense Rubbert passed away just over a year ago and I am gratefully, eternally indebted to him and his lineage of teachers.

That was thirty-three years ago and I am still training. Have I been anywhere near perfect since? No. There have been moments where old instincts crept in, moments where anger flared before I could contain it. But I’ve never been in another fight since stepping onto the mat with Sensei Rubbert.

Martial arts didn’t just change how I move—it changed how I think. “Martial arts inspire us to be better people and teach us how to treat others.” I see that truth now. Ki-Aikido helped teach how the fight can be over, before it even begins*

Fighting used to be my survival mechanism, but now, it’s my reminder of how far I’ve come. I no longer fight because I have nothing to lose. I fight every day to hold on to what I’ve gained—peace, control, and the ability to choose my battles much more wisely.

And that is the greatest victory of all.