Fear Is Fuel

About a year ago, I started doing one-on-one calls with Tony Blauer.

After religiously attending his Garage Gyms, completing his Elite Retreat, studying the Human Weapon System, and becoming an ambassador and affiliate, I had finally found another way to get closer to him.

Honestly, all of those things were just tactics to get more opportunities to train with him one-on-one.

Little did I know, Tony had serious back problems that could probably give my dad a run for his money. And my dad’s entire spine has been fused at this point.

Nonetheless, I enjoyed our private sessions. I figured I could trick him into using these executive coaching calls to let me pick his brain so I could become better at teaching his self-defense system.

What I didn’t realize was that, after about six months, I would finally start doing things I’d been afraid to do for years.

The Fear of Letting Go

The other day, a parent asked me why I rebranded my martial arts school.

I gave them the short answer: We’re not West Coast Martial Arts anymore.

But the truth is, we haven’t really been West Coast Martial Arts for probably six or seven years.

I kept the name because I struggled with the loyalty I felt toward my old Sifu and the organization I had been part of for so long. I also started West Coast Martial Arts Academy with my twin brother.

In reality, though, he hadn’t controlled much of what I taught for years.

Even when it came to black belt testing, I had serious reservations about the process.

In the weeks leading up to a black belt test, I would make my students wake up early and train with me at 6 a.m. I wanted to make sure they had truly been tested, regardless of what happened at their official black belt test.

As far as I was concerned, their real test was with me.

If they survived those early mornings, they had earned their promotion.

So how did I finally get the courage to walk away from something I’d been attached to for so long?

I started working with a self-defense instructor who happens to be one of the world’s leading authorities on fear management.

And he helped me finally create my own martial arts school.

The Dream Behind Blur Martial Arts

Blur Martial Arts is a dream.

And we have to keep dreaming, no matter how big the fear gets.

Blur Martial Arts really started with my twin brother, Hank, whose gamer handle was Blur.

When we were younger, Hank got into a fight with three kids. He was able to use his footwork to protect himself and create space.

Then they brought back a fourth kid.

I genuinely believe the head trauma Hank suffered that day contributed to the mental illness he later developed.

That experience has stayed with me.

Years later, despite 5 instructors talking big, it was The Blur who threw his belt at our Kempo instructor and said, “I cant’t take this shit anymore.” 6 months later West Coast was born.

Blur has to exist so that even kids as young as fifteen know how to protect themselves morally, ethically, and legally.

Not so they can go looking for fights.

Not so they can prove how tough they are.

So they can recognize danger, make better decisions, protect themselves when necessary, and understand the consequences of their actions.

Blur has to exist.

I want to build something that helps prevent another kid from ending up like my brother because they believed their martial arts training was enough.

I want to create a system that teaches people more than how to perform techniques. I want it to teach them how to think, how to manage fear, how to recognize danger, and how to protect themselves without losing their humanity.

Doing Something I Don’t Know I Can Do

Here’s something important about me.

I’ve never failed at anything I’ve set my mind to that I actually had control over.

(We’re not going to talk about my twin brother right now. You have to understand where influence ends and control begins.)

But this is different.

For the first time in my life, I’m pursuing something that I genuinely don’t know whether I can accomplish.

And I’m terrified.

I’m terrified of trying to teach kids the SPEAR System.

Although SPEAR is based on human physiology and natural protective responses, making it more intuitive in many ways than traditional martial arts, that doesn’t automatically mean parents will understand its value.

Getting buy-in from the people who actually matter, the parents and students, isn’t something I can just read about in an Alex Hormozi sales book.

Then there’s the challenge of designing belt tests.

How do I create a test where a child might fail, not because they forgot a technique, but because they couldn’t manage their fear well enough to respond effectively to a scenario we’ve been training for all month?

How do I make that developmentally appropriate for a four-year-old? Or a seven-year-old? Or a teenager?

And how do I train instructors to provide realistic stimuli and responses when they’ve spent years learning to stand there and absorb techniques while students practice their Kempo movements?

Changing the entire philosophy of how we train hasn’t been easy.

Some days, the fear is almost unbearable.

There are days when I’m genuinely convinced that I’m not going to accomplish what I’ve set out to do.

That I’ll eventually have to close my doors, walk away from the school, and just train with my own kids.

Living in the Fear Loop

If you know anything about our self-defense system, you’re probably familiar with the Fear Loop.

And you’d recognize that I’m in it.

The difference is that I’m entering the Fear Loop over this project every freaking day.

But here’s the thing.

I never would have taken this leap without Coach Blauer’s guidance.

In his system, a coach is someone who inspires performance.

And that’s exactly what I want to do for my students.

How can I expect kids to voluntarily train for something they know will be uncomfortable, intimidating, and scary if I’m unwilling to put myself in those same situations?

How can I teach them to manage fear if I’m constantly avoiding my own?

Fortunately, I’ve had a lot of practice being afraid.

And I’m getting even more practice now.

The difference is that I’m learning to use that fear as fuel instead of treating it as a reason to stop.

Teaching More Than Martial Arts

As I continue teaching self-defense and adapting it behaviorally for four- to six-year-olds, seven- to ten-year-olds, preteens, and teenagers, I find myself getting inspired every time I see the kids buying into what we’re doing.

Especially the kids who used to come to class and recognize the limitations of our old training.

There was a part of them, the intelligent, self-aware part that exists beyond their ego, that could recognize when something was missing.

They could memorize techniques. They could perform movements. They could earn belts.

But that didn’t necessarily mean they believed what they were doing would protect them.

And honestly, sometimes they were right.

Now, I’m watching those same kids engage with training differently.

They’re not just memorizing movements anymore.

They’re learning how their bodies respond to fear. They’re learning to recognize threats, make decisions under pressure, manage their emotions, and understand that protecting themselves doesn’t always mean fighting.

They’re learning without awareness, consent, and preparation they can still get themselves mentally and emotionally under control.

And when they flinch they’re learning to work with their natural protective responses rather than against them.

That’s the part that excites me.

I want to reach the part of a person that exists beyond their ego. The part that can honestly recognize their limitations, confront their fears, and discover what they’re actually capable of.

That’s what holistic self-defense means to me.

Not just learning how to fight.

Learning how to protect yourself physically, mentally, emotionally, socially, and spiritually.

What If I Fail?

Maybe this doesn’t work.

Maybe I can’t convince enough parents that this kind of self-defense education is worth investing in.

Maybe I can’t train enough instructors to teach it the way I envision.

Maybe the economics of running a martial arts school in San Diego eventually force me to close my doors and move somewhere cheaper.

But even if I only get through to 150 people before that happens, I don’t think I’ll have any regrets.

Because I’d rather teach what I’m teaching now than go back to teaching what I taught before.

And that’s not a criticism of Kajukenbo, Shaolin Kempo, Hawaiian Kempo, boxing, Thai boxing, Brazilian jujitsu, stick fighting, kung-fu, tai chi, judo, or systems I’ve dabbled and taught over the years.

Those systems helped make me who I am.

But I can’t go back to teaching them as though they’re the complete answer to self-defense.

Not after everything I’ve learned.

Not after seeing what’s possible when we stop focusing exclusively on physical techniques and start teaching people how to understand themselves.

After more than 20 years of teaching martial arts, I finally feel like I’m teaching what I’ve wanted to teach all along.

It’s hard to explain how fulfilling that is.

It’s like I’ve spent my entire career walking around with a splinter in my foot, knowing something wasn’t quite right but never being able to figure out how to remove it.

And now, finally, it’s gone.

I’m still afraid.

I’m still questioning whether I can pull this off.

And tomorrow, I’ll probably wake up and enter that Fear Loop all over again.

But at least now I’m afraid of failing at something I genuinely believe in.

I want to believe that one day, when I see my twin brother again, he’ll give me a fist bump and say, “Man, I’m so glad. I’m so glad I left, so you could move toward doing something that might keep someone else from ending up like me.”

That’s the dream.

That’s why Blur has to exist.

So don’t lose your dreams, guys.

Whether your dream is fighting professionally in your forties, building something that protects children, or making sure no one else has to live the same life you had to live, keep moving toward it.

No matter how big the fear gets.

And that’s a fear I’m willing to live with.

Fear is fuel.

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