Karate is often understood as something purely physical. If that were all it was, I would have walked away a long time ago. For me, karate and depression are not separate parts of my life. They exist side by side.
Karate, at least the way I practice it, is about connection. Connection to the body. To the breath. To yourself when everything feels heavy and distant.
There are times when my depression is loud. On those days, I skip training. At first, it feels harmless. One missed session turns into two. Then a few days pass and suddenly there is that familiar darkness hanging around. Nothing dramatic happens. I just slowly pull away from myself.
But something changes the moment I put on my gi and start moving on my own.
I do not need a dojo. I do not need a crowd. I do not even need motivation. I just need space and repetition. Stance. Breath. A kata my body knows better than my mind does.
As I move, the noise in my head quiets down. The weight does not disappear, but it loosens. My thoughts stop spiraling and start following rhythm instead. For a while, my body does the work my mind has been struggling to do. Research shows that practices combining movement, breath, and focused attention can reduce depressive symptoms and support emotional regulation (Craft & Perna, 2004; Cooney et al., 2013).
Karate gives my depression boundaries.
Depression is often mistaken for a lack of discipline or willpower. It is not. It is a collapse inward. Thinking becomes exhausting. Decisions feel overwhelming. Even things you care deeply about can feel unreachable.
Philosophy has challenged the idea that we are primarily thinking beings for a long time. Phenomenology, in particular, argues that we experience the world through our bodies. The body is not something separate from who we are. It is how we exist in the world (Merleau-Ponty, 1962).
Karate makes this tangible.
When I train, especially alone, I am not trying to think my way out of depression. I am returning to the body as ground. Stance before meaning. Breath before explanation. Movement before narrative. When my thoughts feel unreliable, my body becomes the anchor. Embodied practices like martial arts reduce the cognitive load placed on the mind and help stabilize attention during psychological distress (Mehling et al., 2011).
This is why martial arts and mental health intersect so naturally. Movement interrupts rumination before it has a chance to spiral.
There are times when my depression is loud. On those days, I skip training. At first, it feels harmless. One missed session turns into two. Then a few days pass and suddenly there is that familiar darkness hanging around. Nothing dramatic happens. I just slowly pull away from myself.
But something changes the moment I put on my gi and start moving on my own.
I do not need a dojo. I do not need a crowd. I do not even need motivation. I just need space and repetition. Stance. Breath. A kata my body knows better than my mind does.
As I move, the noise in my head quiets down. The weight does not disappear, but it loosens. My thoughts stop spiraling and start following rhythm instead. For a while, my body does the work my mind has been struggling to do. Research shows that practices combining movement, breath, and focused attention can reduce depressive symptoms and support emotional regulation (Craft & Perna, 2004; Cooney et al., 2013).
Karate gives my depression boundaries.
Stoic philosophy makes a simple but difficult distinction. Some things are within our control. Some things are not. Our actions and effort belong to us. Our moods and emotional states often do not (Epictetus, trans. 2008).
Depression blurs that line. It convinces you that nothing is in your control.
Karate brings it back into focus.
I cannot always control how I feel when I wake up. I can control whether I move. I can control my breath. I can control the decision to begin. Training with depression has taught me that consistency matters more than motivation.
I do not wait to feel ready. I act anyway.
As a philosopher, I value clarity, especially when my emotions are unreliable. One of the most basic forms of logical reasoning is modus ponens. It works like this:
Applied to my practice, it looks like this:
This is not about happiness. It is not about forcing positivity or pretending everything is fine. The conclusion does not depend on my mood. It depends on my action.
Depression tries to break the chain by convincing me the first step is not worth taking. Logic reminds me that I do not need to feel different to act differently. I just need to act.
Karate becomes the premise I can rely on.
Practicing karate alone removes performance and comparison. There is no one to impress. No one to explain yourself to. This is what makes it such a powerful tool for mental health.
Some days my movements feel sharp. Other days they feel slow and heavy. Both days count. Buddhism teaches that suffering increases when we cling to outcomes or emotional states. Wanting to feel better can sometimes deepen distress when that relief does not come (Rahula, 1959).
Karate does not ask me to evaluate how I feel. It asks me to practice.
Depression thrives on all-or-nothing thinking. Karate interrupts that. I do not need to feel good to train. I just need to start. Even brief, structured movement can positively affect mood and emotional resilience over time (Cooney et al., 2013).
From an existential perspective, meaning is not something you find by thinking harder. It is something you create through commitment and action, especially when there are no guarantees (Sartre, 2007).
On the days depression tells me nothing matters, training becomes a quiet act of resistance.
I move not because it fixes everything, but because choosing to act reminds me that I am still here. Karate becomes a way of staying in relationship with myself instead of disappearing into my thoughts.
Karate does not cure depression. It does not promise happiness or clarity. What it gives me is something steadier. Capability. Grounding. A reminder that even when my mind feels heavy and unreliable, my body still knows how to move forward.
I do not train to escape depression.
I train so it does not get to decide who I am.
Craft, L. L., & Perna, F. M. (2004). The benefits of exercise for the clinically depressed. Primary Care Companion to The Journal of Clinical Psychiatry, 6(3), 104–111.
Cooney, G. M., Dwan, K., Greig, C. A., Lawlor, D. A., Rimer, J., Waugh, F. R., McMurdo, M., & Mead, G. E. (2013). Exercise for depression. Cochrane Database of Systematic Reviews. https://doi.org/10.1002/14651858.CD004366.pub6
Mehling, W. E., et al. (2011). Body awareness: A phenomenological inquiry into the common ground of mind-body therapies. Philosophy, Ethics, and Humanities in Medicine, 6(6).
Merleau-Ponty, M. (1962). Phenomenology of perception (C. Smith, Trans.). Routledge.
Epictetus. (2008). The enchiridion (E. Carter, Trans.). Dover Publications.
Rahula, W. (1959). What the Buddha taught. Grove Press.
Sartre, J.-P. (2007). Existentialism is a humanism (C. Macomber, Trans.). Yale University Press.
