From a family of artists

A karenza in Pekiti Tirsia Kali is a free-flowing expression of movement—part shadowboxing, part footwork, part storytelling. It’s where technique becomes rhythm, where the blade becomes an extension of intention, and where the practitioner expresses their understanding of the art through motion.

I used to think karenza would feel natural to me the moment I learned it—but it didn’t. In the beginning of my PTK journey, the movements felt foreign, almost disconnected from my body. It wasn’t until I started learning more about my own lineage that something clicked. As I traced the stories of my family—how they created, expressed, and moved—I began to understand what karenza truly was. It wasn’t just technique; it was a language of memory, a thread tied to the artistry that has always run through my bloodline.

Lola Pikuk winning 1st place. She is wearing her winning gown.

My Grandma Teresa and my Lola Pikuk were the first artists I ever knew. They didn’t label themselves as artists, but their hands told the truth. Their creativity lived in the quiet mastery of dressmaking—precision, rhythm, and intuition stitched into every seam.

Lola Pikuk won first place in Mrs. Largo’s Realistic School Fashion Show in 1953 for her traditional dressmaking, a craft she elevated with both skill and soul. Grandma Teresa, entirely self-taught, made every gown and dress her children wore. They shaped identity through fabric, creating beauty from nothing but thread, time, and patience.

Mom and Dad performing La Jota Moncandeña at the Dominican School.

My parents inherited that same artistic spirit, but expressed it through movement. My dad danced in a folk dance troupe in high school, and my mom learned folk dances as well. At every party or gathering, without fail, they were dancing—moving with joy, rhythm, and a kind of effortless storytelling. That was their art: bodies speaking through motion.

So when I draw, and when I perform a karenza, it feels like I’m weaving those generations together. Drawing has always been my language. But PTK became the movement version of it—lines in the air, rhythm in the body, a silent choreography of thought and feeling. Karenza began to feel like my parents’ dancing, and every stroke of my pen echoes the craft of my grandparents.

By combining drawings and PTK, I feel a bridge forming—between generations, between time, between ways of knowing. Art has always lived in my family; I’m simply carrying it forward in my own form. My purpose in PTK isn’t just about combat or structure—it’s about honoring the creativity and resilience woven into my lineage. It’s remembering that movement is memory, art is inheritance, and every karenza is a dance that connects me back to them.

Not everyone steps into Filipino Martial Arts because they want to be tactical. And that's okay. In fact--it's normal.

We need to normalize the truth that FMA, whether it's Pekiti Tirsia Kali, Eskrima, Arnis, or any of our countless regional systems, is more than a tool for combat. It's a vessel. A language. A living archive of who we are.

Some of us train because we're searching for identity.

Some because we want to reconnect with our lineage.

Some because the rhythm of abaniko feels like home.

Some because the movements remind us of our grandparents' stories.

Some because it's simply beautiful, fluid, and alive.

And yes--some train because it makes them feel powerful, prepared, and grounded.

But none of these reasons are "more valid" than the others.

In a world that often frames Filipino Martial Arts through the lens of realism, violence, or tactical efficiency, we forget that FMA was born from community just as much as it was born from conflict. It lived in festivals, in dances, in ritual. It lived in stories and songs. It lived in our people--and it still does.

If you train for culture, that's valid.

If you train for fitness, that's valid.

If you train because the flow feels like art, that's valid.

If you train because the footwork reminds you of home, that's valid.

If you train because the movements help you heal, that's valid.

If you train because you simply enjoy it, that's more than valid.

FMA is not one-dimensional.

Our reasons for stepping onto the mat shouldn't be either.

To all who don't fit the "tactical" mold--your reasons matter.

Your presence matters.

Your journey is still part of the lineage.

Still part of the story.

Normalize your why.

Honor your why.

And let your training be as human, as complex, and as expansive as our culture itself.