How the meaning of a black belt in Aikido wears with time
It begins with awe, grows into pride, then... something changes. Why each new dan feels a bit less magical, why I stopped framing aikido diplomas, and how the black belt stopped being the point
When I was just starting out, black belts seemed like gods. The way they moved, stood, and entered the tatami with the quiet confidence, the charisma—it was magnetic. Watching them train was like witnessing a force of nature. And I wanted that too.
When I finally earned my own I had this creeping feeling I’d faked it. Like I somehow slipped through the cracks. But slowly, with more practice, the feeling changed. The body grew into the shape. It became part of me. And that first dan meant something.
Each promotion brought the same flicker of excitement, a quiet rush of pride, and yes, again, a bit of disbelief. Still, I custom-framed each diploma and lined four of them up on the wall, evenly spaced, like quiet milestones I wasn’t ready to question.
Then came the fifth. I didn’t even take it out of the envelope.
That wasn’t a decision. It just stayed there. Days passed. Then weeks. Then years. And I started to ask myself why.
When we talk about black belts, we usually talk about achievements, milestones, recognition, access, teaching, belonging. For many, the black belt marks not just technical achievement, but a certain arrival.
In a recent Reddit discussion, one comment stood out:
“For me, the black belt gave me a goal to aim for during my first seven years of practice. It was my primary motivation. Since receiving it... my confidence in my skills is boosted and I am happy with the recognition that came with it.”
In the same thread, others echoed how much the early black belt means:
"It improved my posture ;) Also when you go for seminars people really do treat you differently. Compared to when you're a white belt."
"Earning that rank was a personal achievement, something I had strived to do for a long time. Mentally, I hold myself more accountable to my training and technique, and my personal behavior."
"Black belts to me are like check marks that show your current skill and gained knowledge in relation to what you still need to train and understand. And, most importantly, it’s a signal to your fellow Aikidoka that shows what you know thus far."
"At the time, I saw it as an acknowledgement from people that I highly respected that I had reached a certain level of skill... It has changed how others treat me a great deal, both on and off the mats. It absolutely opened doors to teaching."
"I came up under a strict teacher with high standards. He did not hand out dan rankings like candy or for just showing up. Shodan for me was a personal achievement that held a lot of meaning because it validated the hard work, effort and endurance it took, and acknowledged that my teacher saw that in me."
And of course, someone reminded us not to take ourselves too seriously:
"A piece of cloth with which to fix my gi and hakama on."
These stories feel familiar and sincere. The early black belts meant something because they landed at the intersection of effort, recognition, and timing. We trained hard, looked up to our teachers, and tried to live up to the image we had built around the rank. That meaning wasn't handed to us—we constructed it ourselves, over time, on the mat.
But as time goes on, something shifts.
"After sandan it felt like I was just collecting paperwork."
"Ranks are granted for different reasons to different people. Some people are given a rank because they excel, but sometimes they are given for other (sometimes political, sometimes not) reasons."
"Some organizations are pretty much 'diploma mills', there are no real standards, and no oversight … Morihei Ueshiba himself didn't care for them, or think much of them, they were implemented in the Aikikai primarily as a marketing tactic. Today they are mostly an income stream."
And the most stinging indictment of the monetization of recognition:
The more you pay for a diploma, the less value it has.”
These comments capture the unfiltered frustrations felt by practitioners who’ve progressed beyond the initial excitement—and now see rank as a hollow symbol rather than a meaningful milestone. A strong assertion that dan ranks' validity has eroded over time and quantity.
It’s not criticism or bitterness. It’s perspective. The further you go, the more you realise that what we once saw as milestones are, in fact, part of a larger economy—one we feed by paying for rank, by craving status, by staying silent even when something doesn’t sit right.
And yet, we keep buying. Promotions. Certificates. Seminar fees. Because on some level, they still mean something—or we want them to.
So what is it that we're really buying? Recognition? Safety? Identity? Validation? What story are we helping to tell? Let’s be honest. Sometimes, it’s about ego. Sometimes, it’s about community. Often, it’s about not wanting to fall behind in a system we no longer believe in.
I sometimes ask myself: did any of these belts make me a better teacher? A better partner? A better person? The answer is usually no. Not directly.
And yet, without them, I might not have stayed. Not because I needed the status, but because I needed the structure. The story. A sign that the path I was on wasn’t just a loop.
Now, the story has changed. I still train, teach, explore. But the belt no longer defines the work. It’s just where I am on the trail.
Sometimes I walk past the wall where my dan certificates used to hang—carefully framed, lovingly aligned. One by one they came down. In their place now hangs a piece of artwork that speaks to me in a different language. One that holds no title, no seal, no kanji. One that doesn’t validate me to anyone else. One that never asked to be framed. One that reminds me why I started in the first place.