Patterns, Power, Presence and Timeless Lessons from Tae-Kwon-Do
Aug 28, 2025
When I first stepped onto the mats of Rhee Tae-Kwon-Do in the local community hall, I had no idea that six years later, the lessons I learned there would still echo through my body, mind, and spirit. I wasn’t just learning how to kick, block or punch — I was learning how to live, how to fall and rise again, and how to hold discipline when every fibre of me wanted to give up.
As a 7-year-old, what began with Saju Chirugi — the humble four-direction punch and block at white belt — soon progressed to Chon-Ji at yellow tip. One by one, the journey of belts and patterns unfolded, each one gifting me not only a new sequence of movements, but also a new way of seeing myself.
My formal Tae-Kwon-Do story came to a close once I reached Brown Belt Black Tip (Ch’ung-Mu, 1st Kup). Life circumstances shifted me away from the dojang, but the truth is that Tae-Kwon-Do never left me. Its spirit is stitched into my muscles, my breath, and my way of meeting life head-on.
Founded in the early 1970s by Master Chong Chul Rhee (known as the ‘Father of Australian Tae-Kwon-Do.’) Rhee Tae-Kwon-Do was the first school of its kind in the country.
It carried with it not just the movements of martial art, but a philosophy of respect, perseverance and self-mastery.
This was the tradition I was stepping into, long before I understood its depth.
Each hyung (pattern) carried not just movements, but a story — a rhythm, a lesson, a piece of wisdom.
Yul-Gok (Blue Tip, 5th Kup) taught me discipline and precision. Each stance and strike had to be placed with full intention, not half-heartedly. It wasn’t just about doing the movement — it was about embodying it. That demand for detail spilled into my daily life, reminding me to show up with care even in the smallest of tasks.
Chung-Gun (Blue Belt, 4th Kup) was my favourite. It felt alive, almost like a dance that wove strength with flow. There was something exhilarating about its rhythm, and it awakened in me a joy for movement that was both fierce and graceful.
I will always remember the thrill of finally landing the jump-spin with arms in Hwa-Rang (Brown Belt, 2nd Kup). For a moment, it felt like levitation — a split second when my body defied gravity and my mind proved the impossible was possible. That same pattern carried the unforgettable flying side kick, a move that demanded courage and fearless commitment.
The came Ch’ung-Mu (Brown Belt, Black Tip). Adding that final stripe meant stepping into deeper responsibility and learning the powerful spinning heel kick. It wasn’t just another technique — it was a lesson in timing, control, and trust. I still remember the pride that surged through me when I landed it with both balance and force. It was the perfect marriage of power and grace, leaving me with the knowing that anything is possible if approached with consistency and heart.
I can still vividly remember the day I graded for my Black Tip on Brown Belt (Ch’ung-Mu, 1st Kup). Master Chong Chul Rhee himself was present — the Father of Australian Tae-Kwon-Do, the founder of the very tradition I was part of. To perform under his watchful eye was both terrifying and electrifying. That grading was more than just a stripe on my belt .
It was a rite of passage, a moment where I felt the living lineage of the art moving through me.
The flying side kick became my chosen way to break boards.
There was something electrifying about the run-up, the leap, the suspended moment in mid-air, and the crack of wood splitting beneath my heel.
Each break wasn’t just about wood, and sometimes smashing it to smithereens.
It was about breaking through fear. Breaking through doubt.
Breaking through the invisible walls that life places before us.
Years after hanging up my dobok (uniform), I still find myself practicing blocks, kicks and patterns.
They are etched into me — not just as physical movements, but as muscle memory for life. What once felt like choreography has become embodied wisdom, surfacing instinctively whenever life calls on it.
The front snap kick (ap chagi) reminded me to stay sharp and direct — that sometimes the simplest path forward is also the strongest.
The side kick (yop chagi) taught me the power of stability and strong foundations. Without balance, there can be no impact, in martial arts or in life.
The double forearm block showed me that defence can be just as powerful as offence. It became a lesson in boundaries, protecting my energy and space when life came charging in.
The back kick (dwi chagi) cultivated awareness — a reminder that even as we move forward, we must never forget what lies behind us, seen or unseen.
The flying side kick (twimyo yop chagi) gave me confidence to soar, to leap into the unknown with courage and trust that the ground would rise to meet me.
The spinning heel kick (dwi dollyo chagi) was artistry in motion. It taught me balance in rotation, grace in motion, and the art of timing — that fluidity often carries more power than rigidity.
Then there was the upward elbow strike. Once it escaped me in anger, teaching me a lasting truth: strength without discipline can wound as much as it protects.
Power is only ever sacred when guided by control.
These movements remain more than techniques.
They are symbols, metaphors carried in the body, ready to resurface whenever I need their wisdom.
They remind me that learning lives in the muscles as much as in the mind, and that every move, like every lesson, stays with us long after we leave the mats.
Looking back, Tae-Kwon-Do was never just about patterns or belts.
It was about resilience, self-discipline, and the wild thrill of discovering what your body is capable of when your mind commits. What I carried out of the dojang was far more valuable than any certificate or colour on my belt. It became a living philosophy — one that still guides me today.
Patience: The patterns taught me that progress unfolds one step at a time. You cannot skip to mastery. Each movement must be practiced again and again until it becomes part of you. Life is no different. Every great transformation is built on small, steady steps repeated with devotion.
Courage: The kicks taught me bravery. A flying side kick isn’t just about strength — it’s about the courage to leap when you don’t know exactly how you’ll land. In life, courage looks like stepping into the unknown — a new job, a new relationship, a dream that scares you — not knowing if it will break or hold, but leaping anyway.
Confidence: Board breaking was never about the wood. It was about me. Each time I split through a board, I shattered the doubts that whispered I wasn’t strong enough, fast enough, or capable enough. That confidence became a quiet strength I carry into every room I enter.
Discipline: Perhaps the greatest gift of all. Discipline isn’t punishment — it’s devotion. It’s the willingness to show up, again and again, even when it’s uncomfortable, even when no one is watching. It’s this discipline that builds strength in both martial arts and in life.
Presence: When sparring, practicing a pattern, or setting up to break a board, you cannot be anywhere else. You must be wholly here — alert, centred, and alive. Tae-Kwon-Do trained me in presence, and life continues to ask for the same: to meet each moment with our full attention, energy and heart.
Resilience: Every stumble, missed kick, and failed attempt was a lesson in resilience. Tae-Kwon-Do taught me that failure is never final — it is feedback. You bow, reset, and try again.
As a student of Rhee Tae-Kwon-Do, I still remember the pledge we recited often, a code that stitched itself into the fabric of who I am:
To abide by the rules and regulations of the school.
To obey the instructions of our instructors.
To cultivate self-discipline and perseverance.
To achieve fitness and good health.
To strive always to be modest, courteous, and respectful to members senior to me.
To put the Art into use only for self-defence and the defence of the weak, never to show off my knowledge of the Art.
To endeavour constantly to improve myself — both mentally and physically — through my study of Rhee Tae-Kwon-Do.
To respect and obey my parents, be courteous to my elders, and strive to set an example as a good citizen.
To respect the laws of the country at all times.
To be honourable in my dealings with all my fellow members.
These lessons and pledges have lived on long after I stepped off the mats.
They are reminders that martial arts is not just about movement — it’s about mindset, character, and the kind of person you choose to become.
You can also bring the philosophy of the dojang into your own wild and wonderful life.
Take the journal prompts I am about to share into your journal, your breath, your body and let them move you as much as a flying side kick or a spinning heel strike.
What “patterns” in your life have shaped you most — the repeated practices, rituals, or lessons that trained you into who you are today?
What invisible “boards” are you ready to break through — fears, doubts or barriers that stand between you and your next level?
Where in your life do you need more patience, to trust the process of steady repetition rather than chasing instant mastery?
When was the last time you leapt like a flying side kick — taking a risk with faith that the ground would rise to meet you?
What does discipline mean to you right now — punishment or devotion? How could reframing it help you show up with more love?
Which move best describes your energy at this moment: the directness of a front kick, the stability of a side kick, the courage of a flying kick or the grace of a spin? Why?
I may not wear the dobok anymore, but the spirit of Tae-Kwon-Do walks with me daily. Its lessons live on in my posture, my confidence, and the way I move through challenges. From Saju Chirugi to Ch’ung-Mu, from white belt to black tip, the patterns of Tae-Kwon-Do became patterns of life.
Every movement became a metaphor.
Every pattern, a philosophy. Every board break, a lesson in possibility.
Tae-Kwon-Do gave me more than kicks and strikes — it gave me resilience, patience and courage that continue to guide me far beyond the dojang.
Just like the flying side kick that once broke through boards, Tae-Kwon-Do gave me the confidence to break through barriers in life — not only the visible ones, but also the invisible ones: fear, doubt and limitation.
May the discipline of practice remind us that devotion builds strength.
May the courage of the flying side kick remind us to leap when life asks us to trust.
May the resilience of each board break remind us that barriers can be shattered, seen and unseen.
May the balance of every stance remind us to stay grounded, even when the world spins around us.
May the spirit of resilience, patience, presence and courage always walk with us always both on the mats of the dojang and in the wild, unpredictable jungle of life.
