This morning at 7:30, I’m heading out to Laurel Acres to train Tang Soo Do Moo Duk Kwan. I could train in my black box studio. I could train in my living room. It really doesn’t matter where. The important thing is that I get up and do it. Martial arts doesn’t have to be complicated. Neither does Living Strong. You do what you can, with what you have, in the shape you’re in today. As I often say, you’re always in great shape for the shape you’re in. The kicks and punches move the body, but after all these years, I believe the deeper purpose of martial arts is what those principles teach us about being human—our character, our choices, and the person we are becoming. Many years ago, I used to tell my students: Don’t tell me what you know. Show me what you know. We can spend a lifetime accumulating knowledge. We can talk about what we know. We can even teach other people what we know. But is what we know becoming living and active in our own lives? That’s what I’m thinking about this morning as I get up and go train. And that’s my question for you today: How is what you know becoming living and active in your life? Live Strong. Help others do the same. —Peter

On September 4, 2026, my employment at Dinoto Karate Center, now Action Karate Mount Laurel, came to an end. I did not retire. I did not resign. I did not decide to walk away. I wanted to stay. Many people have asked me what happened. I’ve taken more than a month to think, pray, reflect and decide how I wanted to share this part of my story. Today, I’m ready to share it. This is not about asking anyone to take sides or judging another person’s decisions. It is about preserving history, telling the truth about an important chapter of my life, and sharing what this experience continues to teach me about martial virtue and being human. I wrote the full essay here: https://www.peterliciaga.com/an-era-has-ended-the-lessons-remain/

I've been thinking about one word this morning: hope. We all have moments when we're frustrated, overwhelmed, afraid, angry, or simply feeling stuck. And sometimes what we need most isn't someone giving us another answer. Sometimes we need to know that we're seen. We're heard. We're valued. We're appreciated. And sometimes that's enough to give us a little hope. Then comes the question: What can I do today to make this better? Not fix everything. Not figure out the next six months. Just make this moment a little better. That's where my A-Game begins this morning. How's your A-Game today?

Yesterday, at 65 years old, I went back to the Bronx with my childhood friend and best friend, Danny Silvagnoli. Danny and I have known each other for more than 50 years. We met as kids, somewhere around sixth grade, and our lives have crossed through more seasons than either of us could have understood back then. I went back wanting to see some of the places where I grew up, take photographs, record some video, sit with Danny and talk, and simply pay attention. That last part became more important than I expected. There is a thought that has been following me for some time now: If I had known how important those moments were, I would have paid more attention. Yesterday, I paid attention. One of our first stops was the Mitchel Houses, where I lived as a young boy. My mother used to tell me that our family was among the first families to move into the projects when they were new. Before that, we had lived in terrible conditions not far away. Getting that apartment represented something better for her and for her five children. There were five of us. My sister Loretta was the oldest. I was second. Then came Tony, Carol and Mary. When I look back now, I understand that my childhood cannot be reduced to one simple story. My father abused alcohol and was violent toward my mother. Eventually, she made the decision to lock him out and divorce him. I was only around seven or eight years old the last time I remember seeing him as a child. I would not see him again until I was in my fifties, shortly before he died. My mother had her own struggles with alcohol after my father was gone. There were times when she was not the mother we needed her to be. There were reasons I did not want to be home, and eventually there were periods when the streets became where I lived. Those truths matter. So do some other truths. My mother was raising five children. She fought to get us into better housing. She found ways to put us in school. She worked. She sacrificed. She made mistakes, sometimes serious ones. And in many moments, with whatever she understood and whatever she had available to her, she gave it her best. At 65, I can hold more than one truth at the same time. I don't have to rewrite the painful parts of my childhood to recognize my mother's courage, and I don't have to turn her into a saint in order to have compassion for the human being she was.