self doubt

Two months had passed, and my father had initiated a new routine, taking me outside to our lawn to watch his training sessions. To my surprise, he also began including me in the exercises. The physical exertion was exhausting, but I couldn't blame him; after all, this body was that of a four-year-old.

Today like every other day, i woke up to the rays of the sun filtering through the curtains. The familiar scent of breakfast wafted through the air, and my stomach rumbled in anticipation.

After a hearty breakfast prepared by Lily, I nestled into the cushions for a brief rest, the coziness of the moment almost making me fall asleep again, i couldn't help it you know.

After some time, I stepped outside into the vibrant morning. The grass tickled my bare feet as I made my way to the lawn, where my father, Robert, was already immersed in his training routine.

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"Good morning, Dad," I greeted, a wide smile on my face.

"Morning, champ," he responded, his sword gleaming in the sunlight. So these days I had to either watch him train or he will show me some moves and let me train with him, today was the latter.

Before the training commenced, "Dad, do you think I'll be as good as you one day?" I asked.

Robert chuckled, ruffling my hair affectionately. "Of course, Michael. With dedication and practice, you'll surpass me in no time."

I didn't possess a real sword yet. The prospect of wielding a genuine blade was tempting, but practicality won out over desire. The weight of a true sword, even a relatively light one, posed a potential risk. A misplaced step or an accidental fall could lead to severe injuries, possibly fatal. Additionally, the sheer size of the weapon, nearly as tall as me, made it impractical for training purposes.

So, instead, I wielded a wooden sword, a safer alternative that allowed me to grasp the basics of swordplay without the inherent dangers associated with the real thing.

In our lawn stood a sturdy training dummy, weathered by countless practice sessions. While Robert primarily utilized it for his own training, it became my sparring companion when I practiced strikes and swings.

The training session began as Robert took a step back, positioning himself to demonstrate the nuances of basic sword forms. His feet were firmly planted, one slightly ahead of the other, creating a stable foundation. The grip on the hilt was secure, yet not too tight, allowing for flexibility in movement. His body was angled slightly to the side, presenting a narrower target to an imaginary opponent.

"Alright, Michael," he began, his voice steady and reassuring. "Watch carefully. The key to a good strike is in the flow of your body and the precision of your movement."

As he spoke, he initiated a series of graceful swings, showcasing the proper extension of his arms and the fluid rotation of his torso.

"Now, observe the footwork," he continued, seamlessly transitioning from one stance to another. "It's essential for balance and control. Your feet should move in tandem with your strikes."

"Practice these movements, Michael. It's the foundation of any good swordsman," he advised, handing my wooden sword to me to repeat what he demonstrated just now.

I grasped the wooden sword in my small hands, attempting to replicate the movements demonstrated by my father. However, my form lacked the fluidity and grace of Robert's. My stance was unsteady, my feet struggling to find the proper positioning. The grip on the hilt was too tight, betraying my nervousness and lack of confidence.

As I swung the wooden sword, the movements were awkward and disjointed, lacking the finesse of Robert's demonstration. My arms strained under the weight of the sword, and my torso failed to rotate smoothly with each swing.

As I clumsily wielded the wooden sword, frustration and self doubt mingled in my mind.

"Why am I so.... so incompetent? I've lost everything once and I can't afford that a second time...my skill with a sword is pathetic at best...I...I can't mess this.... this time...the fear of failure is eating me alive from inside. No, I must get better, I will get better...I cannot fail again, I don't want those memories to haunt me again...I want to protect what is precious to me, not lose them..again..."

Robert's keen gaze caught onto my unease. Sensing my distress, he approached with a gentle smile, concern etched into his features.

"What's wrong, champ?" he asked.

"I... I'm not very good," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper. "I want to be better, but... I don't know how."

Robert's expression softened as he knelt down to my eye level.

"You're doing just fine, Michael," he reassured, "Everyone starts somewhere, and the important thing is that you're trying. And after some time, i promise you you'll be better than me."