On My Way Back Through Aikido

Last June, around the time of Master Umetsu Sho’s seminar in Seoul, I started to feel that something was off with my body. Looking back now, there were signs even before that.

I just didn’t take it seriously… When I traveled to Japan in May, I was already having frequent bouts of diarrhea and general discomfort, but I chalked it up to a simple stomach issue.

What I brushed off as nothing was, strangely, both very uncomfortable and long-lasting. Eventually I went to see a doctor, and I was diagnosed with stage 4 rectal cancer.

I don’t even know how to describe that moment…

It would be a lie to say I stayed calm. Did I fall apart? I’m not sure. I just felt this strange numbness, unable to form a single thought.

It just felt like reality had been dropped in front of me — something I had no choice but to accept…

I had always believed that a lifetime of conditioning my body in the dojang meant I was taking care of my health, so it felt strange and unfamiliar to realize I had had no control at all over what was happening inside my own body.

After going from hospital to hospital, I began radiation treatment at Seoul National University Hospital in August. Before the side effects of the radiation had even faded, chemotherapy began, and from that point on, my body was no longer the body I once knew.

My weight dropped by about 20kg almost overnight. My body got to the point where even walking from the bathroom to the bed at home was exhausting.

The person who used to stand in a dogi in front of students had become someone sitting in a hospital waiting room, waiting for their name to be called.

A body that once had no trouble training swordsmanship with many partners after receiving instruction now struggled just to climb a few stairs.

In December, I had surgery to remove the cancer that had developed in my rectum and liver. It was my first time undergoing (abdominal) surgery. It was done laparoscopically, but for me it was a major operation, and recovery wasn’t easy either.

But before recovery was even complete, I was told the cancer had spread to my lungs.

Honestly, at that point, I couldn’t even bring myself to answer my wife’s phone call.

What was I even supposed to say…

It felt like clearing one hurdle only to find another waiting right behind it — like walking down a road with no visible end. There were several moments when I wanted to just sit down and give up.

Even now, chemotherapy continues. I am still a cancer patient. I will likely go on living this way for some time yet. Perhaps this is how I’ll have to live out the rest of my life.

But starting this past January, difficult as it’s been, I began going back to the dojang again.

My wife scolded me, asking why I would go out when I was sick instead of resting at home.

I asked myself whether I could really live without the dojang, without the martial art…

My body isn’t fully recovered, and my doctor keeps urging me to focus on recovery and never push myself too hard. And yet, when I open the dojang door and step inside, when I put on my dogi again and greet the members, I find that those few steps are what makes me feel truly alive.

I think anyone who has trained in Aikido for a long time will understand this feeling. What we learn in the dojang, in the end, isn’t flashy technique — it’s how to recover your center once it’s been broken. Perhaps I am now learning that lesson not through my body, but through my life.

These days I can no longer move as freely as I once did. I get out of breath partway through a demonstration, and movements that never bothered me before now put my whole body on edge with pain.

And yet, for as long as I’m standing in the dojang, I can exist not as a cancer patient but simply as the head of this dojang, and for that moment when we move together, I can feel that I am still alive. That time means more to me than any other part of the recovery process.

I titled this post “Preparing for My Return” because I haven’t fully come back yet. I am still in the process of preparing — preparing my body, preparing my mind, and above all, preparing myself to live alongside this illness.

I still don’t know whether I’m on the road to a full recovery or a road I’ll have to walk alongside this illness for a long time. But either way, one thing is certain: walking that road inside the dojang is far better for me than walking it away from the dojang.

Over the years, Jeju Oseung Dojang has produced many black belts and licensed instructors. Lately, I’ve been feeling all over again that none of that time was wasted.

Even while I was away for treatment, the dojang never wavered — the senior members led the junior members and kept the training going.

I can’t even express how much comfort that gave me. It made me truly realize, this time, that this dojang was never built by me alone — it was built together.

One thing I learned through training in Katori Shinto-ryu swordsmanship is that the state of mind at the moment you grip the sword determines the outcome.

Right now, I may be holding the most dangerous sword of my life. I can’t say for certain whether I’ll win, or how long it will take.

But there is one thing I’m certain of: I won’t run from it. I’ll face it head-on, and I’ll keep doing so within this martial art.

During my treatment, I felt deep gratitude toward the senior members who opened the dojang doors and guided the junior members even without me there, and toward the many junior members who kept faithfully coming to the dojang even without their head instructor present. No one told any of them to step up, yet each of them shouldered as much of the weight as they could carry.

Every time I sensed that the dojang had actually grown stronger during my absence, I felt a wave of relief and pride — a sense that the time I had put in all these years hadn’t been wasted after all, and it brought me real joy.

Going forward, there will be many days when, depending on how I’m feeling, I won’t be able to put in as much training time as before, days when I can’t demonstrate a technique fully, and many days when I’ll need to rest partway through. But I think I can finally tell myself that it’s okay.

Because I now know that simply standing in the dojang as I am — not perfectly recovered, but present — is, for me right now, a return that is meaningful enough on its own.

Thank you to everyone who has read this. Every bit of concern and every word of encouragement has given me great strength. Until the day I’m able to return fully, I’ll keep preparing, step by step, without rushing. Thank you, truly, for walking this road with me — and for trusting that you’ll continue to walk it with me still.