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The rebirth of Parkour is the rebirth of my former self. A lot of people don’t know that—but before the languages, before the goal of becoming fluent in the most complex and globally recognized languages of the world—I had a different dream. A totally different foundation of identity.

Before I fully absorbed this identity built on language learning and Sinology (Chinese studies), I was Parkour and martial arts. I practiced for years, from my early teens right up to the beginning of my academic journey. Then I dropped it, choosing instead to adapt to new circumstances, new mental pursuits. But now—it’s back. And I realized something:

Even though I left Parkour, Parkour never, never left me.

The systems in my brain wired for movement—balance, coordination, spatial awareness—were still there. The memory of motion, stored not just in the conscious mind but encoded deeply in the nervous system, was vivid. After that first session back, it was obvious. Every vault, every jump, every controlled landing felt familiar. The only thing missing was physical conditioning. The body had gone still, but now it’s been hit by a storm of movement. And both body and brain are recalibrating—rebooting—back into the system.

The surge is enormous. When I move—when I leap, vault, absorb impact—it’s beyond what words can capture. Each landing, each slam of foot to ground is like being hit by the weight of a hundred horses in motion. A gorilla’s punch into concrete. That primal force I used to feel daily—it’s back. And it’s overwhelming in the best way.

After two years of study, I tried other forms: gym workouts, home routines. Later, I started running. But running never hooked me. It felt slow, repetitive, mundane. Like eating bread with cheap butter—no texture, no spice. Gym work is surface-level—about the look, about flesh. There’s no fire, no cannon at its core.

Parkour, on the other hand, is an explosion. A machine gun of motion. Bursts of adrenaline. Energy flowing like water shaped by air, navigating obstacles with fluid momentum. The landings—oh, the landings. Controlling the drop of a 90-kilo body into a roll, then springing back up—it feels like compressing an entire army into one human body and letting it explode outward in motion. Every jolt of impact sends electricity through the system. The body becomes springs, coils, wires of raw kinetic charge. The brain and the body sync in a deep, instinctive rhythm.

Because this is not just physical—it’s neurological. Parkour taps into the motor cortex, the cerebellum, the systems responsible for coordination, timing, and spatial awareness. It activates memory in a way most people overlook—muscle memory, but deeper than that: procedural memory. It’s the system that stores the “how” of action, beyond words or thoughts. Every move practiced years ago still echoes in the wiring of the brain. Synapses fire. Balance recalibrates. Vision sharpens. Focus narrows. The whole nervous system lights up like a circuit board reconnecting to power.

Since I did Parkour, even after years of stagnation, I realized I was incapable of falling or tripping. Every time my foot hit the edge of a stair instead of landing cleanly on it, the foot “jumped” midair and corrected itself to land on the step. Every time I tripped, the feet reacted automatically—completely outside of my conscious control. My body intervened before I even registered what was happening. It landed the slip. It landed the trip.

It’s magic—pure biological and neurological magic.

What’s happening is this: through years of Parkour, the body has trained pathways in the nervous system that bypass slow, conscious thought. The feet, legs, core—they respond based on deep motor memory. Reflexes refined not by accident, but by deliberate repetition. It’s the kind of automatic control that lives below awareness. The brain receives the signal of imbalance, and instead of thinking, it acts. Instant correction. Years of movement encoded into the very way the body handles gravity.

Running? Screw running. It was never mine. Parkour was always my movement. A primal instinct. The ancestral memory of navigating a raw world—no buildings, no pavement. Just terrain, trees, rock, and body.

It’s beautiful. It’s intoxicating. Better than any alcohol or sex you could get. The embodiment of a warrior in physical form.

Parkour was me.
And now it’s back.
And god, do I love it.
It’s the essence of my former soul, re-activated, reborn to stay.