A Million Belts, One Lesson
I don’t demand anything from my students.
I offer an opportunity.
What they do with it is up to them.
Show up.
Try.
Be honest.
Work hard.
Those are invitations — never orders.
Because the truth is, a great student with a mediocre teacher can still climb mountains.
And even a struggling student with a great teacher can climb them too.
Imagine what happens when both care, both try, both show up.
That’s the world I’m trying to build.
Give a child the chance to do.
Keep bringing them back to the work.
Show them kindness, excitement, encouragement.
Tell them it’s okay to fall down.
The classroom has to be a safe space.
Failure is a catalyst for learning —
but so is belief.
So is the quiet confidence that a child, or a student of any age, is capable of far more than they can see.
Shitty teachers pour their energy into the talented.
Anyone can teach the gifted.
The true measure of a teacher is the kid who struggles.
Let the least coordinated, least confident child represent me.
If they can grow, I’ve done my job.
There’s a kid I teach — I tie his belt every single time I see him.
He’s old enough to figure it out, sure.
But he hasn’t yet.
So I tie it again.
And again.
And again.
Until the day he finally gets it.
What’s easy for some is hard for others.
And that’s fine.
That’s the whole point.
If I have one strange superpower, it’s this:
I can tie a karate belt perfectly.
Crisp, clean, sharp — like the uniform is announcing who that kid could become.
A properly tied belt and a crisp uniform start a student off with perfection.
Where they go from there is up to them — and a million things I’ll never control.
But I can send a kid onto the floor looking perfect.
And if I make them smile while I do it, maybe next time they’ll wash their face, comb their hair, and walk in a little more perfect than before.
That belt will eventually start tying itself.
That uniform will come in pressed.
And the student inside it will come in a little sharper every day.
But I’m supposed to yell,
“It’s easy — do it yourself”?
Why?
What does that teach?
Independence doesn’t come from shoving a kid into the deep end.
It comes from patience.
From repetition.
From tying the belt a hundred times until one day they surprise you.
Perfection isn’t demanded.
It’s modeled.
It’s encouraged.
It’s handed to them — gently — until they can hold it themselves.
I’ll tie a million more belts.
That’s the job.
And I’m proud of it.
And still…
I ache for the students who left before I figured it out.
Before I learned how to give them what they needed to succeed.
My desire for their success was there — burning — but I didn’t yet have the maturity, the patience, or the understanding of what it truly took.
For the ones I let down, the ones I pushed too hard or not enough, the ones I pointed in the wrong direction — I’m sorry.
But we’re all works in progress.
Teachers included.
Never put a teacher on a pedestal.
Celebrate them, sure.
Reward them.
Give them everything they’ve earned.
But don’t carve them out of marble and put them behind glass.
There is nothing mystical about a teacher.
Nothing divine.
We aren’t the doers.
We don’t build the world or move the game pieces.
We usher along the ones who do.
Teachers get paid in moments.
Not money — moments.
The moment the doers they helped finally do the thing.
That’s the real paycheque.
That’s why so many teachers stay despite the long hours, the emotional drain, the frustration, the fear, and — all too often — the bottle waiting at home.
Teachers chase one thing:
the hope that the people they helped shape will go out and change the world.
That’s it.
That’s the whole bargain.
But hey — I’m just a dumb karate teacher,
so fact check me.