“I’ve never had a job interview like that,” she said on the phone. “No one has ever put the values of the company before the technical skills needed to do the job.”
She wanted the job. Badly. Not because of the salary or the title or the company name on her resume. She wanted to see what it was like to work in that kind of environment.
I wasn’t trying to be innovative. I was running the only company I knew how to run: a martial one.
Most people hear “martial company” and think... what? Military? Aggressive? A kind of corporate boot camp where we do push-ups when quarterly numbers are missed?
No.
We live by five specific tenets. And everyone who works for us lives by them, too. Not as slogans on the wall. As the actual operating system.
I thought it was the Karate Kid
At 49, I thought martial arts was basically The Karate Kid. Violence. Aggression. Wax on, wax off. Teenage boys in headbands getting revenge on bullies. Not my vibe at all. I’d spent my entire adult life first in the kitchen, then in the office working in technology. I sat in meetings. I wrote code. I shipped products. I negotiated deals.
The idea of getting punched in the face on purpose? Hard pass.
But I was dating this woman named Kymberlee. She trained three nights a week at a Hapkido dojo in Santa Barbara. And if I wanted to see her those evenings, she said, I needed to come to the dojo.
So I went. Once. Open-minded and all that.
The Grand Master running the school was Dave Wheaton. About my age. About my height and build. About as chill a human being as you’d ever want to meet. The school was just getting started—maybe 20 years ago now—and there weren’t many people in the class yet.
The vibe was 100% different from what I thought. Not aggressive. Not militaristic. Not Karate Kid at all. Just... focused. Respectful. Intentional.
I signed up the following week.
If you walk off the street into a Hapkido dojo, you don’t even have a belt. You have to test to get a white belt. Then you work through the colored belt system. At each level, you demonstrate proficiency in the skills expected at that rank. There are test days on Saturdays. Other students are testing at the same time. A board of black belts is watching. And when you pass, Grand Master Dave comes over and ties your new belt on you himself. It’s a ceremony. It’s quiet and powerful and it matters.
I trained religiously for three years. Three nights a week. Kymberlee and I did everything together—work, family, play, martial arts. I never once thought about quitting.
After about two and a half years, I earned the belt that makes you a candidate for a black belt. A six-month countdown starts. Everything changes. If you drink, you stop drinking. They look at your weight. Your focus. Your commitment. There are extra classes on Saturdays. The road to the black belt gets very, very serious.
You also have to write an essay. Only Grand Master Dave reads it. No formula. No length requirement. Just write what becoming a black belt means to you. I wrote something unusually long.
The day before the test
The test itself is three hours. Forms. Sparring. Breaking boards. And The Form—a choreographed scenario you create and name yourself, demonstrating at least 25 different skills in whatever sequence you choose. I called mine “The Staff Defense” and used the bo staff—a seven-foot polished wood staff that Japanese citizens used to defend themselves because only samurai could carry weapons. I practiced in my driveway for months. Sweeping moves. Spinning takedowns. Ways to trip attackers and keep them at a distance.
For sparring, they put me up against the top black belt in the school. Oh my goodness, it about killed me. But I got through it.
The day of the test, families and friends are invited. The school is packed. The stress is real. Master Wheaton gave me advice I still use: “Pick a spot on the wall. Focus on that spot. Drill into it.” When something is hard now—a presentation, a negotiation, a high-stakes moment—I find a spot and drill into it.
But the day before the test, I took Dave to coffee. I wanted a quiet moment with him. He was seventh dan at the time. Decades ahead in skill and wisdom. I asked what I should think about. What I should focus on. What he’d learned that he could pass along.
He looked me right in the eye and held my gaze. Then he said: “Don’t f**k up.”
I’ll never forget that. It’s become folklore in my house. When something important is on the line—a big pitch, a critical decision, a high-stakes moment—we look at each other and say it. Don’t f**k up.
I got my first dan in exactly three years. Record time. Minimum time. When Dave leaned in and tied that belt around me, it meant something.
But here’s what I didn’t understand yet: earning a black belt isn’t the destination. It’s the beginning of Mastery. For the rest of your life, you will be a black belt. After first dan, you train one night per week with a cohort of other black belts. And it takes everything to a whole other level.
They don’t tell you about this part beforehand. Up until now, you’ve demonstrated proficiency in maybe 247 different skills. Sidekicks. Flying sidekicks. Rear kicks. Punches. Takedowns. Self-defense techniques. All of it. Now you add weapons. Knife. Gun. Cane. Short stick. Long stick. Everything. You learn how to defend against eight people at the same time. It ratchets up significantly.
Two years later, I tested for my second dan with my friend Philip. We were both tall, and it was strongly suggested we get a mentor. We asked Mike Hieshima—the guy who’d nearly destroyed me during my first dan sparring test. He agreed.
Mike had us meet on the Bluffs in Carpinteria, overlooking the water. We’d come to attention before him, and he’d take us through the entire second dan test without saying a word. Just barking out commands. One hour. Then notes. Come back next week. We did that for four months. By the time test day came, it was so automatic we passed easily.
To celebrate, Kymberlee designed a ring for me. Gold, with a Hawaiian maile leaf that encircles the ring, then inset in the shape of a knot in a black belt—which also looks like an M. Filled with black onyx. A diamond on each side to signify two dans. I love that ring. It’s very important to me.
Forty minutes is more powerful than forty hours
The five tenets are:
* Courtesy.
* Integrity.
* Perseverance.
* Self-Control.
* Indomitable Spirit.
These tenets come from the Korean martial arts tradition. Our dojo adopted them from Taekwondo, where they’ve been part of the student oath for decades. You’re introduced to them as a white belt. But you don’t really understand them until later.
What shocked me most was how much those three years changed how I showed up everywhere. At work. In my relationship. In how I approached problems. The math was weird: 40 minutes on the mat. 40 hours in the office. The 40 minutes were more powerful.
Here’s an example. Before training, if someone cut me off in a meeting—talked over me, dismissed my idea—I’d either shut down or come back twice as hard. Neither worked. After a year on the mat? I’d wait. Let them finish. Then say what I needed to say with courtesy but without backing down. The tenet wasn’t about being nice. It was about having self-control while maintaining an indomitable spirit. That one shift changed how people responded to me. I stopped losing negotiations because I got emotional. I started winning them because I stayed present.
Forty minutes on the mat taught me that.
I’d been a Boy Scout. I knew the Scout code. But that didn’t stick. This was different. Maybe at 50, I was old enough to know what it meant and why it mattered.
That’s when I started telling people in job interviews: “We run a martial company.” I’d explain what I meant. “We live by these five tenets. And the people who work for us, we require that they live by them too.”
Courtesy to one another and to clients. Obvious. Integrity in all our dealings. Easy one. Perseverance when deadlines get tough or projects get hard. We don’t quit. Self-Control when we travel, when we negotiate, when temptation shows up. We manage ourselves. Indomitable Spirit—we cannot be dominated. Not by competitors. Not by the market. Not by pressure.
That last one is the hardest. The rest are table stakes. Tell the truth. Be kind. Work hard. That’s not a high bar.
But indomitable spirit? In technology? Where companies are viciously competitive and markets shift overnight? Most companies react. The market shifts, they pivot. A competitor undercuts them, they drop prices. They’re always responding to external pressure.
Indomitable spirit means you set your direction and hold it. You don’t let quarterly pressure make you compromise on values. You don’t let competitors dictate your strategy. You don’t let fear drive decisions. It’s the difference between a company that knows who it is and a company that’s just trying to survive. That’s why it’s the hardest tenet. And the most powerful.
To find a way to not be dominated is a very strong point of view to live in. I do. And it’s challenging.
That woman who called back after the interview? We hired her. She was great. For a while. Until she wasn’t.
Nearly everyone we’ve ever let go was because of some violation of the tenets. Not because they lacked skills. Not because they couldn’t code or design or sell. Because they lied. Or cut corners. Or gave up when it got hard. Or couldn’t control themselves under pressure. It’s not a high bar. But it’s a real one.
Most companies hire for skills first and hope for culture fit second. We flipped it. And it worked.
When the heart rate wouldn’t come down
About 10 years ago, I stopped training. I was on the mat one Saturday morning. We wore heart monitors so Dave could look up and see how everyone was doing—maybe 50 people kickboxing at the same time. He pulled me aside. “Are you OK?” I said I was fine. What’s wrong? He pointed at the monitor. My heart rate was 172. Normally it was tough for me to get to 110. “Yeah,” I said. “I do feel a little speedy.” He told me to sit down and rest. My heart rate didn’t come down. “You really need to go to urgent care.”
I did. That’s when I was diagnosed with atrial fibrillation. They put me on blood thinners. When you’re on blood thinners and you spar, you get bruised. Badly. Even if someone barely touches you. So I stopped training on the mat. But I didn’t stop living a martial life.
My daughter Melissa is a black belt. Second or third dan now. We got her started years ago when she wasn’t feeling challenged by her exercise routine. Kymberlee suggested she join us at the dojo. She did. And she stayed.
Years ago, she called me to complain about work. She’s an event planner. It’s stressful. I don’t remember what the specific problem was, but she was venting. I stopped her mid-sentence. “Hold on,” I said. “Is this what perseverance looks like?” She shut up. “OK,” she said. “You’re right.”
I love having a set of words—an ethos—that helps guide how you work. How you show up. How do you decide? The tenets are in my DNA now. Twenty years of practicing them.
The recent challenge for me? Courtesy. I’m nice to a fault. Except when I’m not. I’ve nearly worked that out of my system, but sometimes it rears its head. Someone cuts me off in traffic. Someone lies in a meeting. Someone disrespects someone I care about. That’s when courtesy gets tested. And I’m still working on it.
We perform occasionally at JEST Improv in Ventura. It’s in the basement of this huge complex. Right across the hall is a Karate dojo. On Friday nights when we’re there, that dojo is full of little kids learning discipline. Listening. Caring for the person they’re training with. Paying attention. Taking instruction. Working as a team. All of those are skills I wish I’d learned way earlier in my life.
The test nobody stops taking
The Karate Kid lied to an entire generation. The movie taught us that martial arts was about violence and aggression, winning fights, and being tough. It’s not.
It’s about courtesy in a world full of road rage. Integrity in a world full of white lies. Perseverance when you want to quit. Self-control when you know you shouldn’t. Indomitable spirit when the market tries to dominate you.
Everyone talks about hiring for culture fit. But they still lead with skills. What if you actually meant it? What if you put the tenets first and taught the skills?
That woman who called back didn’t just want a job. She wanted to work somewhere where the company was clear about its culture. That had a backbone. That stood for something real. Most companies don’t know who they are. They know what they do. They know what they sell. But they don’t know who they are.
We do. We’re a martial company. Not because we fight. Because we know what we stand for. And we don’t compromise on it.
I haven’t been on the mat in 10 years. However, I still take the test every single day. The difference is that I know what test I’m actually taking.
Courtesy. Integrity. Perseverance. Self-control. Indomitable spirit. That’s the test.
And some days, I pass. Some days, I don’t. But I keep showing up.
That’s what the tenets teach you. Not perfection. Persistence.
Through Another Lens
A Sunday Story by Mark Sylvester
