I Don’t Need to Be Called “Sensei.”
I’ve been training martial arts for a long time now, and the more I move through different gyms, different teachers, and different cultures, the more one thing keeps coming up in my head:
Why do we keep pretending that tradition is always sacred?
In a lot of traditional martial arts — especially karate — there’s a whole system built around etiquette: the bowing, the “yes sir/no sir” energy, the titles, the posture, the feeling that the instructor is someone you shouldn’t question.
For a long time, I played along because that’s just what everyone did. I didn’t love it, but I didn’t really examine it either.
Then I started rolling in BJJ. I trained with boxers, wrestlers, Muay Thai fighters. I traveled. I trained in different places with different cultures. And something shifted.
I realized a lot of what we call “tradition” isn’t really about respect.
It’s about control.
Not everywhere. Not always. But often enough that you can feel it.
It’s the soft pressure to treat one person like the center of the universe. It’s the expectation that the teacher must always be the best at everything — even when time, age, and reality say otherwise. It’s the unspoken rule: follow, don’t question.
And honestly, that never sat right with me.
Because here’s the truth:
with real training — with sparring, rolling, pressure testing — nobody needs to tell you who’s earned respect. You feel it. You experience it. The mats reveal everything.
Real hierarchy is natural.
Forced hierarchy is insecurity.
And insecurity shows up in weird ways — like insisting everyone use titles, or pretending the instructor is some untouchable master who never makes mistakes.
But I don’t want that. Not for myself, and definitely not for the community I’m building here in Valencia.
In every art, in every gym, someone eventually becomes faster, sharper, stronger, or better at a specific technique than the teacher. That’s not a threat — that’s proof the environment is working.
If one day someone throws a cleaner kick than me, or rolls smoother than me, or moves in a way I never could — I hope the first thing out of my mouth is:
“Beautiful. Teach me.”
Because that’s the culture I believe in:
Respect earned through practice
Growth shared, not guarded
A community where everyone teaches and everyone learns
I’m not anti-tradition. Some rituals matter. Some words carry weight. Some structure creates meaning.
But tradition should support people — not cage them.
So if you come train with me here in Valencia, here’s what you can expect:
No titles.
No posturing.
No performance.
Just training.
Just community.
Just the slow, honest process of getting better — together.
And if respect exists in that room, it won’t be because we rehearsed it.
It’ll be because we lived it.
