Yun So-yeong
Since childhood, my daughter has loved sports and spent much of her youth practicing Taekwondo. Last year, when she heard that a Taekwondo tournament would finally be held in person after several years, she could hardly contain her excitement. I gladly gave her permission to participate, thinking, “a healthy mind dwells in a healthy body.” But when I learned she intended to compete in sparring rather than in forms or kicking, I was taken aback. The thought of my precious daughter taking blows from another competitor filled me with worry and even kept me awake ever since.
Every evening, she trained for hours, coming home with her long hair drenched in sweat. What I had first assumed would be just a simple experience for her soon felt like a heavy weight on my chest, as I watched my daughter dedicate herself entirely to preparing for the tournament.
On the day of the tournament, the parking lot was packed with cars, and the arena buzzed with people—family members, friends, and coaches from various Taekwondo schools, all cheering for their athletes. Hoping to offer my daughter a few last words of encouragement, I hurried to the waiting room. I peeked through the doorframe and scanned the rows of athletes sitting in pairs until I found my daughter’s round, fair face. I waved enthusiastically, but she only gave the slightest nod in return—a look heavy with the tension of her very first match.
As I made my way to the stands, the arena’s cold air sent a shiver through me. My legs trembled and my heart pounded as I struggled to steady myself, all the while worrying about my daughter and how nervous she must be. I wondered how she was coping with the tension, and whether she might be hungry—she had skipped her meal earlier, confident she could manage on an empty stomach—especially now that her match was running behind schedule.
Finally, her match began. Seeing her fully geared up—with head and body protectors and mouthguard in place—I felt as if I had sent her into a lion’s den. Her opponent, clearly experienced, attacked with relentless intensity. My daughter froze, barely able to strike back, and after repeatedly returning to the center of the ring at each referee’s whistle, the first round ended in defeat.
During the short break, the coach at the corner called my daughter over. Meeting her eyes, he patiently explained what to do next. He helped her steady her breathing, handed her a towel, and brought her some water. Listening carefully, she nodded vigorously several times before stepping back onto the mat.
At the start of the second round, my daughter began to close the gap, scoring point by point as she adapted to the rhythm of the match. From the corner, her coach’s booming voice rang out, pointing to every opening. With a steadiness she hadn’t shown in the first round, she finally landed a decisive three-point strike. The coach, who had been clapping and shouting until his hands turned red, let out a long breath of relief. Watching the team beside the athletes—guiding them, shouting tactics, and reading the flow of the fight—made me realize just how crucial the support of a dedicated team truly is.
Her face flushed with exertion, my daughter began attacking more boldly and frequently than before. I was proud of how quickly she adapted, and watching her face her opponent alone in the tense atmosphere of the match moved me deeply.
After my daughter won the second round and waited for the third, I finally had a moment to look around. Some children took deep breaths to calm their nerves before their turn, while others seemed on the verge of tears from the tension. Each young athlete was so absorbed in their match that they barely seemed to notice the cheers of their parents from the stands. Meanwhile, parents watched anxiously, flinching at every hit to their child’s body or head. I understood completely—just like me, they probably wished they could step in and fight in their child’s place.
Watching my daughter give her all in the match reminded me of our Heavenly Father and Mother, who are always cheering us on. I began to understand, even if only a little, that the hearts of our Heavenly Parents ache more when Their child stumbles over a small stone than from Their own pain or toil.
On the journey back to our heavenly home, I am grateful for our Father and Mother, who walk with me through every difficult and painful moment, praying that I may overcome in the end. With the support of my steadfast brothers and sisters, I hope to take strong, determined steps in fulfilling the gospel of the kingdom and bring a smile to our Heavenly Parents, who are always supporting us.