(Approx 2 minute 20 second read)

A couple of months ago, I wrote an article about a post on social media that made me stop and think. It suggested that people are only worth engaging with if they’ve met specific criteria: if they’re champions, if their students are successful, or if they’ve earned respect through verifiable accomplishments – whether in competition or in so-called “real-life” street fights.
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The world of martial arts is full of people who carry the spirit of the art in everything they do. In my view, they are just as worthy of respect as any champion or anyone in the ‘special group’.
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It got me thinking about the ‘quiet people’ out there – those who do so much and deserve recognition yet often go unnoticed.
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If there’s one thing to know about quiet people, it’s that your first impression of them is probably wrong. Yet, if there’s one thing society clings to with great conviction, it’s the belief that they have quiet people all figured out.
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Many people feel uncomfortable in the presence of a “quiet one”. They make comments shrouded in judgment: “Well, you don’t say much, do you?” or “Why are you being so quiet?”
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It’s as if silence itself is suspicious – a sign of something being plotted in devious stillness. Yet, the question “Why are you so loud?” is rarely asked with the same tone of universal disapproval. Gregariousness and noise, while sometimes inappropriate, rarely provoke the discomfort that quietness does.
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But quietness, when it stems from a natural way of engaging with the world, is simply a default way of being. It’s a starting position: To listen before speaking. Understand before voicing an opinion. Experience before expressing a response.
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It’s often the quiet ones who are the most innovative and creative. They are the observers, noticing what others overlook. They find answers to problems no one else can hear.
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One of my instructors back in the UK during the 1980s and 1990s was the epitome of the quiet sensei. I admired the way he carried himself – with quiet confidence, softly spoken. No one messed with him; he exuded a presence that commanded respect. I wanted to be like that guy someday.
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In a world overflowing with noise, quietness is a gift. It doesn’t need questioning or fixing. It’s only when you know someone deeply that you begin to recognize the different forms their quietness can take. You don’t need to point it out – sometimes, you just need to be there and listen to them for a change.
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In some circles, experienced instructors naturally gravitate toward engaging with each other, fostering valuable discussions and collaborations. However, this can sometimes lead to the quieter voices being overlooked, even when their contributions are equally meaningful.
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Everyone has worth, and I admire those who recognize that worth in others. It’s not just about acknowledging someone’s value but understanding that all people – all teachers and instructors, no matter how “quiet” they may seem – have principles, ideas, and values worth hearing. Their voice may not be the loudest, but it carries equal weight.
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The quiet ones – the unspoken sensei – whose strengths, wisdom, and dedication make a profound impact, even when the world isn’t watching. Their voice may not be the loudest, but it’s equally important.
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Written by Adam Carter – Shuri Dojo