How my kids got their black belts

Hello fellow thinker,

This weekend, we hit our goal, a huge milestone— both my kids earned their black belts in Taekwondo after three years of dedication. It’s one of those moments you dream about as a parent, but when it finally happens, it still hits you in unexpected ways.

The ceremony itself was simple. The dojo was brightly lit, with no special decorations—just a few chairs rearranged, and the masters and judges seated in a neat panel at the front. Fifteen candidates stood ready to demonstrate years of hard work and discipline. Indira and I found our spot in the parent corner, where we could watch everything unfold.

Before the two-hour test began, the instructors gave the kids a minute to close their eyes and gather themselves. Watching Ben and Jasmine sit there with their eyes shut, taking control of their thoughts, their patience, and their attention span—it struck me how much they’ve grown. Being present in the moment is hard to learn, but they did it.

And then the test began.

We were right there with them, feeling every kick and block during sparring, counting along as they powered through their exercises. Jasmine and Ben each completed the same number of pushups and sit-ups, pushing through intense drills of running, jumping, kicking, sparring, and crunching. The test was grueling. It wasn’t just about strength or skill—it was about endurance and perfection. Any mistake meant more pushups, more sit-ups. And while they both struggled at times, they made no mistakes. They stayed focused, energized, and nailed every move.

Then came the part I’ll never forget: the board-breaking. To earn a black belt, you have to break boards in ten different ways—kicks with jumps, hands and fists. There were chunks of splintered wood flying all over the place! Ben’s foot turned red halfway through, and I could tell it hurt. But he didn’t flinch. He just powered through. Watching them both fight through that challenge, I felt a mix of pride and joy. I’ve trained in Muay Thai and dabbled in Taekwondo for a few months, so I know how tough it is. I can throw a decent roundhouse kick, but these two made it look effortless.

And then, right when I thought the day couldn’t get more emotional, the instructors set out two chairs in the middle of the room. They asked the students to bring their parents forward. Ben and Jasmine led us to the chairs, knelt in front of us, held our hands, and expressed their gratitude. It’s hard to describe what that felt like. We did this twice, and both times, they handed us roses as a gesture of respect and love. I wasn’t prepared for how deeply that would hit.

Here’s the thing—I pushed my kids to achieve this black belt because it was something I always wanted when I was a kid. But back then, I gave up. I quit. I didn’t stick with it. That stuck with me, and when Ben and Jasmine started Taekwondo, I was determined to keep them focused. They knew this was important to me, maybe even more than it was to them at first. But somewhere along the way, it became theirs too. In that moment, kneeling before us, they weren’t just doing it for me—they were doing it for themselves.

What made the day even more special was having friends there who’ve been with us since the beginning. They were the ones who first referred us to this school, and they came to support Ben and Jasmine at the ceremony. After the ceremony, we collected the kids’ black belts, each with their names embroidered in yellow, and went out to dinner with those same friends (🙌).

I Raised a toast with my Diet Coke and congratulated them for their achievement.

It was one of those perfect evenings—good food, great company, and the satisfaction of seeing a goal through to the end.

But the next morning, I woke up with a familiar feeling. It’s the same one I used to get after releasing a new song back in my music days, or after closing a big deal at work. It’s even the same feeling I get after finishing a really great book. It’s a kind of melancholy. Like a piece of me had been left behind. This goal, which had been a part of my daily thoughts and energy for so long, was now complete. Checked off. Accomplished. And while I was proud and happy, I also felt a little… empty. Another chapter closed.

But that’s how life works, isn’t it? Every big achievement opens the door to something new. I’m beyond grateful for this chapter—it’s one of the most meaningful in my life.

But now, it’s time to write the next one.

Keep kicking my friends!

Amir