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I can still vividly remember the moment I signed up for that self-defense course—exactly how I felt, exactly where I was mentally. I didn’t have some grand goal. I just didn’t want to be at home. I needed a way to release the tension, the anger that had been building up inside me. That decision changed everything.

After the course, a women’s self-defense group was formed. About a month later, my Si-Hing suggested I start attending regular training sessions too. And just like that, without fully realizing it, I stepped onto a path that would shape the next 12 years of my life—my Wing Tsun journey, which began in Hungary.

At every training, I watched the advanced students with a kind of quiet hunger. I remember thinking: I want to be there. I want to train like that. But wanting wasn’t enough—I knew I had a long way to go. So I showed up. Again and again. Whenever I could, I was in the training hall. Practicing. Repeating. Learning.

At one point, I was training seven times a week. Later, four—but the intensity never really faded. I was completely pulled in. Not just by the system itself, but by the community, the energy, the feeling that there was always more to understand. I wanted all of it.

Then came my first seminar. And honestly? It hit me hard. I stood there with just four or five months of training behind me, completely out of my depth. We were being shown techniques far beyond my level, and I had no idea what was going on. I remember thinking: Why are we doing this? What is this even for? I felt lost.

After that experience, I made a decision: next time, I won’t feel like this. So I trained even harder. And… the next seminar? I still felt lost. 🙂 And the one after that. And the one after that.

For a long time, it didn’t get easier. But something did change. Slowly, almost without noticing, I started to understand—not the techniques themselves at first, but why things were taught this way. Why we were exposed to something beyond our current level. Why confusion was part of the process.

Every seminar, every camp began to take on meaning. I would go home with more questions than answers—but instead of frustration, it became fuel. I wanted to dig deeper. From a certain point on, it wasn’t just about learning techniques anymore. I wasn’t satisfied with just doing the movements—I wanted to understand what was behind them.

Because when Si-Kung—or any high-level master—teaches, they’re not just showing techniques. They’re passing something on. A piece of the system. Its roots. Its philosophy. The thinking of those who came before us. The depth that isn’t visible at first glance.

The techniques stopped being just combinations of movements. They became messages. Messages from generations before us. And at some point, I started to feel the weight of that. The responsibility. The desire to carry it forward.

Now, as a master, I no longer train just for myself and my own self-defence. I train to preserve and pass on what I was given. I want the people I train with to see more than just techniques—I want them to feel that there is something deeper there. Something worth exploring.

I still have a lot to learn. Honestly, it feels like my journey has only just begun.

And that’s exactly why seminars matter so much to me now. They’re not just training events—they’re mirrors. They confront me with my limits. They push me out of my comfort zone. And again and again, they reignite that inner drive to learn more, to go deeper, to understand Wing Tsun not just on the surface but in its essence.

Because everyone walks their own path in Wing Tsun. And “kung fu” doesn’t just mean skill—it means hard work. Real work. Work you put into yourself and within yourself. It’s not just about techniques. It never was.

Over time I hope keep growing. Keep learning. Become wiser. And one day truly give back the knowledge and the care I once received.