Mushi

Mushi is the cliché dragon tattoo of a middle-aged karate teacher who had a rough ten years.

Go ahead. Roll your eyes.

You’ve seen the type.

But Mushi didn’t appear one afternoon in a tattoo parlour.

He’d been cooking for years.

He wasn’t mapped out.

He wasn’t engineered.

He wasn’t carefully planned.

He was born.

And like every birth, we didn’t know what Mushi would look like until he arrived.

If you know your Japanese — which I don’t —

you’ll know Mushi means selflessness.

No ego.

Clear.

Mushi carries no ego.

I do.

That’s the difference.

Because here’s what you need to understand:

Mushi is not me.

Mushi is a collective.

Mushi is the people who love me.

The people I love.

The ones who carried me when I couldn’t carry myself.

Mushi is parents who gave everything they had.

Who worked hard.

Stayed small.

So their family could grow.

Mushi is a wife who chose me.

Who stays when things get hard.

Who worries for me more than I worry for myself.

A worry I wish I could lift from her.

Mushi is a friend who calls.

And calls.

And calls.

Two grown men on a phone

refusing to hang up.

Mushi is a mentor who brings gasoline

when others reach for hose.

Who lights the match

when I forget I can burn.

Mushi is a son

who makes me proud every single day.

Who inspires me to rise

when it’s supposed to be the other way around.

Mushi is students and colleagues

who outgrew a sensei out of necessity.

Who carried a dojo

when I couldn’t.

Who kept it breathing

Alive.

Yes, I fell.

I was bent by things I couldn’t control.

Illness.

Anxiety.

Depression.

Hospital rooms measured in ceiling tiles and needle marks.

I wasn’t ashamed of being sick.

I was ashamed of breaking.

Ashamed that I couldn’t carry it alone.

Ashamed that I needed to be held.

Even though it wasn’t my fault.

But hospital months are a fraction of a decade.

Pain visited.

It never moved in.

Trauma doesn’t own me.

It never did.

Even when I looked death in the eye,

it wasn’t fear that kept me here.

It was love.

And love doesn’t surrender easily.

Mushi is not power.

Mushi is protection.

A serpent that circles what matters.

The scales shield.

The eyes keep watch.

The claws and teeth meet what comes too close.

I’ve lived inside that circle.

Protected.

Carried.

Guarded by people who never kept score.

Love doesn’t come with a ledger.

Mushi doesn’t collect.

The care I received was not a loan.

There were no debts.

There never were.

Breaking didn’t remove me from the circle.

It proved I was inside it.

Now it’s time for me to take my place in it.

Not at the centre.

Not as the dragon.

As a scale when shielding is needed.

An eye when vigilance matters.

A tooth when something must be fought.

Not the strongest.

Not the smartest.

Not the fiercest.

Just one part of the whole

that makes Mushi unstoppable.

Impenetrable.

Uncorruptible.

All I’ve ever wanted

was to be part of Mushi.

I just didn't have name to call it.

Now I do!