I have practiced aikido for twenty-five years. Over time, it has become less a martial art and more a way of understanding human interaction when the stakes are high. Aikido is not about aggression or dominance; it is about what happens when force enters a relationship and how that force is met. This is precisely the territory many couples find themselves in long before they consider therapy.
Aikido begins with an attack—not as a failure, but as a moment of truth. Something real is happening. On the mat, the person who initiates the attack, known as uke, is not an adversary but a partner—someone whose willingness to engage makes the practice possible at all. The question is never how to avoid the attack, but how to remain centered when it arrives. The same question lives at the heart of intimate partnership. When pressure builds—through betrayal, power struggles, or chronic misattunement—automatic responses take over. People brace, counter, withdraw, or escalate. The relationship narrows.
Aikido trains a different response. Rather than meeting force head-on, one learns to stay grounded, to track intention, and to move in a way that transforms the encounter. This requires discipline, precision, and restraint. It also requires respect for the other person, even in moments of intensity. These principles shape how I work with couples who cannot afford emotional chaos—personally or professionally.
One of aikido’s central insights is that the attacker is not the enemy. Uke offers a sincere strike and then entrusts their body to the interaction, receiving the technique in a way that allows both people to remain intact. When an attack is understood as arising from imbalance rather than malice, the response becomes measured rather than reactive. Power is held, not unleashed.
In couples therapy, this shift is often decisive. When partners can recognize that beneath anger or withdrawal lies fear, grief, or a threatened sense of self, the interaction slows. This does not minimize harm or bypass accountability. Instead, it allows for clarity without humiliation and firmness without retaliation. Repair becomes possible because the relationship itself is no longer under constant assault.
Aikido is also explicit about power. A skilled practitioner has the capacity to injure but chooses control. The aim is safety and integrity, not victory. In my work with couples, particularly those navigating broken trust or entrenched conflict, this understanding of power is essential. Sessions must be structured tightly enough to contain intensity, while remaining open enough for truth to emerge. Without this balance, insight collapses into chaos or avoidance.
Perhaps the most important lesson aikido offers is that balance is not a permanent state. Everyone loses center. Mastery lies in the ability to return—quickly, cleanly, and without excess damage. Couples often arrive believing that the presence of conflict signals failure. Aikido suggests something more exacting: rupture is inevitable; repair is a discipline.
On the mat, when aikido is working well, something subtle but profound occurs. After a precise redirection, uke often rises calm, even smiling. The body registers that intensity can coexist with safety. Trust is restored through experience, not reassurance. This is the same shift that allows couples to move forward after rupture—not by erasing the past, but by changing how pressure is met in the present.
This is not casual work. Like aikido, it demands commitment, honesty, and a willingness to examine one’s own reflexes under stress. For couples accustomed to operating at a high level, this approach often feels immediately familiar: rigorous, contained, and deeply relational.
Harmony, in aikido, is not the absence of force. It is the capacity to engage force without being overtaken by it. This understanding sits at the center of my work with couples—and for those willing to practice it, it changes everything.
For some couples, moments of strain become a turning point rather than a breaking point. When approached with care, precision, and respect for what is at stake, conflict can become a source of clarity rather than erosion. This is the work I do. Those who recognize themselves in this way of thinking often know when it is time to begin a different kind of conversation.
