When I ran a storefront dojo, it was never meant to replace full-time work. It was something we did because we enjoyed it. That didn’t stop the rent, insurance, and utilities from arriving each month – or the noticeable gaps on the mat when students didn’t turn up.

Over the years, I heard many reasons for not showing up. Some of them were genuinely amusing. Singing lessons. Soccer practice. Band rehearsal. “The seat fell off my bike”. Life happens.

One student in particular always made me smile. Very intelligent. Very capable. He would attend every Friday and Saturday, then decide to go singing on the odd weekend and miss part of a progression we were working on. The following week he would complain that the class had suddenly moved beyond him.

I never felt angry about it. Mostly, I found it interesting.

We often expect continuity from intermittent effort.

How many times do you attend class? Once? Twice? Three times a week? You know the days. You know the time. And yet you are surprised when missing sessions creates gaps.

No one can put skill into your hands. The understanding comes from the work. You gain from training what you invest in it.

Showing up is important. But showing up is not the same as training.

There is a difference between attendance and engagement. Some people come in, work hard for a couple of hours, then leave and do not think about karate again until the next class. And that is fine – if that is the level of commitment they have chosen.

Where difficulty begins is when expectations exceed investment.

If karate is simply a pleasant way to spend an evening, there is nothing wrong with that. But we must be honest about what that produces. Proficiency, insight, even health benefits beyond the surface level – these require repetition, reflection, and often practice outside scheduled class time.

One of the most rewarding aspects of teaching is witnessing the ‘aha’ moment – that sudden flash when something clicks. But those moments are not delivered. They are earned.

That flash of understanding only appears because groundwork has been laid. Without context, without repetition, without time spent wrestling with something, the light doesn’t switch on.

You can teach someone a method. Often, they still have to feel it for themselves.

Wherever you are in your training, there is always another step. Sometimes that step is difficult. Sometimes it simply requires patience. It may be a cliché, but it is true: this is a process.

And if you want that process to mean anything – if you want depth rather than familiarity – at some point you have to fix the seat and get back on the bike.

The same principle applies outside the dojo. Most things that matter don’t improve just because you show up occasionally. They improve because you keep returning to them, even when it would be easier not to.