Chapter 3 #2
I took a breath, visualizing the sequence.
Step in, right arm up and over, trap his wrist, pivot left.
My execution was far from perfect, but for the first time, the movements flowed together in something approaching the correct order.
When I applied the final leverage, Chad allowed his shoulder to rotate slightly, acknowledging the potential effectiveness of the technique.
"Correct," he said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "The angle is still off, but the principle is sound."
We drilled the technique over and over, his corrections becoming more refined as I grasped the basic pattern.
"Your center of gravity is naturally lower than mine," he noted during one repetition. "That's an advantage in this technique. Use it."
I blinked in surprise. My body—my curvy, soft body that had never seemed like an advantage in any physical endeavor—potentially had something to offer in this context?
"Again," he said. "This time, sink your weight. Ground yourself."
I tried once more, focusing on lowering my center of gravity, feeling the strength in my thighs as I stepped in. This time, when I applied the leverage, Chad's weight shifted more dramatically, his balance momentarily compromised.
"Good," he said, that hint of approval back in his voice. "Very good."
I wanted more—more praise, more of that feeling that I'd met his exacting standards. The realization was both thrilling and unsettling.
But, Chad didn't give me long to bask in the minor victory of the Kimura lock.
After a brief water break, during which I gulped greedily from my bottle while he barely sipped from his, he returned to the center of the mat.
The set of his shoulders had shifted subtly.
Whatever came next would be more challenging.
"We'll finish with a defensive technique from a common attack position," he said, gesturing for me to join him. My legs protested as I pushed off the bench, muscles already shaky from the unfamiliar exertion. "The side headlock is one of the most frequently used attacks by untrained assailants."
He demonstrated by placing an arm loosely around my neck from the side, careful not to apply any actual pressure. Even with his deliberately gentle hold, the position made me instantly tense. Memories of the park flashed unbidden—rough hands, the stench of cheap beer, the helpless panic.
"Easy, Little One," Chad murmured, so quietly I wasn't sure I was meant to hear it. His arm released me immediately. "Just demonstrating the starting position. You'll learn to escape it."
I nodded, forcing a deep breath.
"The technique requires you to drop your weight and create space," Chad continued, reverting to his instructor voice. "Let me show you with a training dummy first."
He retrieved a heavy, human-shaped dummy from a nearby closet and positioned it on the mat.
With methodical precision, he demonstrated the escape—dropping his hips, turning into the dummy's body while securing its arm, then executing a sweeping motion that would have taken a real person to the ground.
"The sequence is critical," he explained. "Create space, secure control, execute the takedown. Now I'll break it down step by step."
He walked me through each component of the movement—how to position my hands, where to place my feet, the proper angle for my hips. It seemed straightforward enough when he demonstrated in slow motion, his body moving with mechanical precision.
"Let's try it," he said, lying down on the mat. "I'll play the attacker. Remember, I won't apply real pressure. This is just to learn the positioning."
I knelt beside him awkwardly, hyperaware of our new proximity. This was different from the standing techniques—more intimate somehow, with Chad lying on the mat, his powerful body suddenly in a vulnerable position despite being the "attacker" in our scenario.
He guided my head to the proper position in the crook of his arm. "Now execute the escape as I showed you. Drop your hips, create space, secure my arm, sweep."
I tried to remember the sequence of movements, but my mind went blank. My limbs felt disconnected from my body, refusing to coordinate. I wriggled ineffectually, achieving neither space nor control.
"Stop," Chad said calmly. "Reset. You're rushing. Think through the steps."
We repositioned, and I tried again. This time I remembered to drop my hips, but my attempt to secure his arm was clumsy, my grip failing as soon as I tried to initiate the sweeping motion.
"Better," he said, though it clearly wasn't. "But your grip needs to be higher on my arm. Again."
The third attempt was marginally more successful, but I still couldn't complete the sequence smoothly. Each movement felt disjointed from the next, my body refusing to string them together into a coherent defense.
"You're thinking too much," Chad observed, his voice patient but matter-of-fact. "Your body can't flow when your mind is analyzing every step. Once more."
But the fourth attempt was worse than the third. My fatigue was mounting, my coordination deteriorating with each failure. The technique that had looked so straightforward when Chad demonstrated felt impossible, my body a betrayal of leaden limbs and clumsy movements.
"I don't understand what I'm doing wrong," I said, frustration seeping into my voice. Sweat dripped from my hairline, and my breathing came in ragged gasps that had more to do with emotional distress than physical exertion.
"Nothing's wrong," Chad replied evenly. "You're learning. Let's break it down again."
Something inside me snapped. All the frustration, exhaustion, and disappointment of the past hour crashed over me in a suffocating wave. To my horror, tears welled in my eyes and spilled over before I could blink them back.
"I can't do this!" The words tore from my throat, raw and ragged. I pulled away from Chad, burying my face in my hands, humiliation burning through me as fiercely as the tears. "I'm too slow, I'm too clumsy . . . I'm just not getting it! I'm wasting your time."
Once the dam broke, the flood was unstoppable. All the insecurities I'd carried for years came pouring out, given voice by fatigue and frustration.
"Look at me," I choked out, gesturing helplessly at my body, my face still hidden behind one hand.
"I'm not built for this. I can't even climb a flight of stairs without getting winded.
I've spent my whole life being the last one picked, the one who couldn't keep up .
. ." My voice cracked. "I thought maybe this would be different, but I'm still the same pathetic Daliah who couldn't run the mile in middle school without everyone laughing. "
I sank to my knees on the mat, shoulders shaking with sobs I couldn't control. The physical failure had cracked me open, exposing all the jagged, broken pieces I'd spent years trying to hide.
"Mrs. Henderson was right," I whispered, the words bitter on my tongue. "I should stick to painting other women's nails and stop pretending I could ever be anything else."
I couldn't look at Chad. Couldn't bear to see pity or, worse, confirmation in his eyes. The small gains of the earlier session —the wrist escape, the Kimura lock—seemed hollow now, lucky flukes rather than genuine progress.
"I'm sorry," I managed between hiccupping breaths. "I'm sorry for wasting your time."
I felt myself shrinking, physically curling inward as if I could disappear into the mat, all the fragile confidence I'd started to build crumbling like a sandcastle at high tide.
In that moment, I wasn't twenty-seven-year-old Daliah taking her first steps toward empowerment.
I was twelve-year-old Daliah, standing on the edge of the track while Jason Meyers mooed, the teacher looking away in secondhand embarrassment.
Through the blur of my tears, I could just make out Chad's stillness. He hadn't moved, hadn't spoken, was simply watching me fall apart with an expression I couldn't read through the watery veil of my shame. When he finally spoke, it was just one word.
"Daliah."
My body responded to his voice before my mind could process why.
"Look at me." The command was gentle but unmistakable, the tone of a man accustomed to being obeyed.
I shook my head, my hands still covering my face. I couldn't bear it—couldn't face him after making such a fool of myself. My fingers pressed harder against my eyes, as if I could physically hold back the humiliation seeping from them.
"Daliah." This time, a hint of steel threaded through my name. "Look at me now."
I raised my gaze reluctantly, expecting to find disappointment or, worse, pity in his eyes. Instead, I found something entirely different—a calm, steady assessment coupled with unexpected warmth. No judgment, just clarity.
"That," he said, his voice quiet but carrying an authority that vibrated in the air between us, "is your only real opponent here. Not the technique, not me. That voice in your head telling you you can't. It's lying to you, and I won't allow you to listen to it in my academy."
I blinked, tears still tracking down my heated cheeks, momentarily confused by his words.
"I don't understand," I managed, my voice hoarse.
"Your body isn't your enemy, Daliah. Your doubt is." Chad's gaze remained unwavering, holding mine with gentle insistence. "The words you just spoke—about being too slow, too clumsy, not built for this—those are the attackers you need to defend against first."
Something cracked open in my chest, a fissure running through defenses I hadn't realized I'd built.
"But I couldn't do it," I whispered. "I tried and failed."
"You didn't fail. You practiced," he corrected, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Failure implies an end point. Practice is a process."