If an employer tells you, "We're like a family here," you'd probably think, "Yeah... no thanks." Family isn't something people declare, it is something you feel. Why do I mention this? I will explain below.
Backward to my very first day at Waikato Kendo Club happened to be a grading day. One senpai came over to introduce themselves, explained how grading worked, and patiently taught me a few kendo terms. During our conversation, they mentioned that kendo had changed their life, that they no longer felt as anxious or stressed as they used to. At the time, I remember wondering, How can swinging a bamboo sword around possibly do that? Four months later, I think I finally understand.
My love for martial arts actually started with my love for Japanese culture. As a teenager, I practised Aikido and absolutely loved it. When I moved to New Zealand, though, I couldn't find a dojo that felt like the right fit. Aikido relies heavily on working with your partner's energy, and as a small person training alongside people three times my size and with years more experience, I found it difficult to revisit the fundamentals. Add a body that's now in its late twenties - less flexible and at a stage where even sleeping in a slightly wrong position can tweak my back for a week and require a full recovery plan - I stopped training.
Then one day, while walking through the University of Waikato campus, I found Waikato Kendo Club. The line that caught my attention was simple: "All ages and genders welcome." That felt inviting. Also... kendo involves swords. Honestly, who doesn't want to learn how to use a sword?
I really enjoyed the beginner classes with Sam Sensei. We focused on the fundamentals, and every session came with clear, immediate feedback that helped me improve. At first, my biggest challenge was remembering all the Japanese terminology. More than once, everyone else would already be moving while I was still trying to work out what had just been said, quietly waiting for the demonstration before catching up.
The bigger challenge came when I joined the advanced sessions. They were a fantastic opportunity to apply everything I'd learned, but they also made me feel clumsy, slow, and constantly behind everyone else. Surrounded by experienced senpai, I worried that I was slowing the class down.
The funny thing is... nobody else seemed to think so.
That insecurity existed almost entirely in my own head.
Every senpai encouraged me through their kiai, gave me thoughtful feedback, and celebrated even the smallest improvements. I never felt judged for being a beginner. Instead, I felt like everyone genuinely wanted new kendoka to succeed.
Every practice follows the same pattern. It starts with a little discomfort - the part of me wondering if I'll mess something up today. Then somewhere between the loud kiai, endless footwork, and trying not to trip over my own feet, something changes. I leave the dojo feeling lighter, stronger, and somehow more ready for whatever waits outside.
Little by little, my body has become stronger, my confidence has grown, and the worries I carried into training seem to disappear somewhere between the first bow and the final rei.
Now I finally understand what that senpai meant on my first day.
If Sensei provides the foundation, and the dojo is the roof, then everyone training there forms the walls that make it a house.
One thing I love is that nobody expects you to make small talk or explain how your week has been. We arrive, bow, show respect, train hard, encourage each other, and leave having shared something much more meaningful than conversation. Often there are even homemade muffins or snacks from Marleen Sensei waiting at the end of practice, which, let's be honest, is another excellent reason to train hard. To me this feels like home.
Looking back at my first grading, there were over thirty people watching, cameras everywhere, and a panel of examiners observing every movement. Strangely, I wasn't nearly as nervous as I expected to be. That's because Sensei always reminds us that grading isn't about winning or losing, passing or failing. Kendo isn't a race. It's a lifelong journey of improving yourself.
I had practised hard, so I walked in feeling confident. I was fortunate enough to pass, and I was genuinely happy. But even if I hadn't, I would have walked away with valuable feedback, another goal to work towards, and only been $10 poorer. That's a pretty good deal for personal growth.
I don't know where life will take me in the future, but I hope kendo will remain part of that journey for a long time. My next goal is to wear bogu (armour) and eventually become a motodachi - the person receiving strikes and helping those who are just beginning, just as so many senpai have done for me.
One small tradition that I have come to appreciate is taking a group photo after every practice. At first, it seemed like just another routine. Now I realise those photos quietly capture something much bigger than attendance. They capture our progress, our friendships, and the moments that slowly turned a dojo into a second home.
Four months ago, I joined because I thought swords were cool.
I still think swords are cool.
I just didn't expect to find a family along the way."
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