San Chi Dao - Jan Dahl

Why do we remember what we remember? Which experiences, scents, or tastes settle so deeply within us that they shape our lives, while others vanish like morning mist? What force is it that drives us to wonder and to question everything?

For me, that search began with a beef sandwich.

I know it sounds strange, but it is one of my earliest childhood memories. I was around three years old when my mother and I visited an immigrant family in Hedemarken in Albertslund. They invited us home for dinner. That beef sandwich represented a feeling of hospitality and warmth that has rooted itself deeply. Deeply enough that it sticks to this day – strange what the brain decides to keep!

I also have another clear, though more neutral, recollection from that time. I remember, as a small boy, trudging up the many floors to our own apartment. The structure of the apartment itself also remains vividly clear. It is perhaps an odd memory to retain, and I wonder why exactly this memory persists, without any seemingly deeper significance.

My name is Jan Dahl, and my story begins with my birth on November 30, 1975, at Rigshospitalet in Copenhagen, one of two frail boys who came into the world prematurely. My twin brother and I spent our first period in an incubator, fighting for life. We are the only twins in my mother’s family who both survived – a strong, yet rarely discussed fact. Although I don't remember this part, I am convinced that everything we experience helps to shape us, both consciously and unconsciously. I have often thought that this early fight for survival may have laid the foundation that has shaped much of my path.

The questions about memory, and where our driving force comes from, have followed me throughout my life. They are the core of my wonder. They have, at times, driven my surroundings to the edge of their patience. My mother, who was accustomed to knowledge coming from books and authorities, did not always find my many "why's" easy – especially not in a time when Google did not yet exist. I am quite sure that both my school teachers and my first instructors in the world of martial arts had to take a deep breath more than once when I questioned everything.

But this constant search has become a compass that has guided me through all aspects of my life. The many questions and the constant curiosity have been the primary driving force behind the development of San Chi Dao. Therefore, today, I regard every question from a student as a gift. I take it as a sign of interest – that they are actually thinking about what they are doing, and not just doing as they are told. We find the answer through collaboration. I guide them, lead them to the answer, and teach them to use our concept, theories, and principles for self-help. Because San Chi Dao is intended as a means to find one's own answer when facing situations one has not encountered before.

This story is about exploring the crucial moments that shaped my path and eventually led me to create San Chi Dao. Let us now take the first step on that journey together.

The childhood memories truly began to take shape when we moved to Løvens Kvarter 7a in Albertslund in 1979. Here, I became an older brother when my little sister, Jane, came into the world on May 25, 1981. Our mother was alone with us until she met Bent Mogensen in 1983. Bent took on the role of a stable and loving bonus father. He spent a lot of time with me and my twin brother, teaching us to fish, shoot with air rifles and slingshots, and enjoyed sharing his passion for board and card games. He taught us about masculine interests, but he was also a source of the stability a boy needs in his early years.

I was an adventurous boy who challenged boundaries. I grew up in an Albertslund characterized by gang environments, which created a wild and at times chaotic childhood where petty theft and vandalism were seen as "cool." It was in this environment that the first thought of learning martial arts arose, driven by a deep-seated desire to be able to defend myself against the bigger boys. My mother's concern that I would end up misusing it in my wildness was great, and her refusal was unequivocal. What I didn't know at the time was that this inner urge to defend oneself would one day become the driving force behind my entire life's work.

In 1988, my mother and Bent made a momentous decision that felt like a pure escape from a path that would likely have led us in a completely different direction. We moved to Næsby Strandvej 2 on Lolland, a place that was the diametrical opposite of Albertslund. Here, there were no gang environments, but fields as far as the eye could see and a silence that replaced the city's unrest. The road to the school in Vestenskov was three kilometers long, and I began to learn that a quiet country life required a different kind of energy and adaptation.

Here, the "cool" trouble stopped, because the other children simply looked at us with wonder when we tried to test boundaries. Nevertheless, the large boys who wanted to bully the smaller ones also existed in the countryside. Whether it was my past that provoked them, or if I was simply an easy target, I don't know, but I quickly learned that flight could be the best self-defense strategy.

On Næsby Strandvej, I truly began to build the discipline that would prove crucial. My first part-time job was at Gottesgabe Manor, where I performed simple tasks. Later, my twin brother joined me, and we worked tirelessly in the beet fields before we took on three newspaper routes, stretching from Nakskov to Næsby Strand. Alongside the hard work, I started running with the Heart Association. Twice a week, I ran 10 km in Vindeholme Forest.

All the cycling and running built up a baseline fitness and a mental resilience that proved invaluable. It was my first, unconscious form of self-defense – the ability to run from a confrontation when necessary, and a sense that through physical discipline, I could take control of my own safety. It was a foundation laid before formal martial arts ever began.

I persistently pleaded with my mother. The desire to learn martial arts was not just a fleeting thought but a deeply felt necessity driven by the wish to be able to defend myself. Her concerns overshadowed my desire; she feared that I, in my wildness, would simply use new skills aggressively and without control. The opportunity finally arose in 1991, when my mother allowed me to join my friend Brian for "self-defense" at the youth school. Brian was one of my friends whom she genuinely liked, and the name "self-defense" sounded far less threatening than the "dangerous karate where they kick each other in the head."

Neither my mother nor I could have foreseen that my first training session would involve learning strangulations. When I came home with red eyes and clear marks on my neck, she understandably panicked. She immediately called my first coach, Brian Larsen, who reassured her and guaranteed that the training was both safe and responsible. Fortunately, Brian's words were enough to calm her down so that I could continue – a crucial moment, as my martial arts career could easily have stopped right there. Shortly after, I naturally lured my twin brother along, and after the summer holidays, we officially started Jiu-Jitsu at Nakskov Judo and Jiu-Jitsu Club.

At the club, where one could train both, I also wanted to try my hand at Judo. But my first training session was simply too hard. The brutal grind and the intense throws were overwhelming, and I stopped immediately. Yet, the thought of returning never quite vanished, and it was only a matter of time before I went back to Judo.

My daily life during those years was an intense race that built an unwavering discipline and endurance. Every day, I cycled 3 km to school – each way – on an old, rusty bike where the gears barely worked. The newspaper route, which we started with one of, expanded to two and later three, making the total daily distance for the papers over 30 km. Jiu-Jitsu training took place 10 km from our home – also each way – on the same bicycle. In addition, I cycled 5 km to Vindeholme Forest – each way – to run 10 km twice a week. At a given point during this period, I could easily cycle and run over 250 km a week.

This enormous physical programme was an early, but crucial, training in dedication, and even though it was tough, it taught me to push myself and build mental toughness. And yes, of course, I haven't forgotten the sprints I had to take at school when the bigger boys chased me; it was the ultimate endurance training.

In the period from 1991 to 1993, life continued to present changes. We moved to Vestenskovvej 54, and at the age of 16, we got a moped. The freedom it provided was immense – a new sense of independence that made the intense daily cycling a little easier. It was, however, freedom with reservations, as the moped often broke down, teaching me an early lesson in self-reliance. My Jiu-Jitsu coach, Torben Feldskov, helped me and taught me how to repair the moped, which was an invaluable assistance that created a strong bond between us. In 1992, my mother divorced Bent, but even though he was no longer part of our daily lives, I maintained contact. He had been a good bonus father, and the bond we had built was important to preserve.

October 1992 became one of the most defining moments of my early years. I won my first medal: a 3rd place in the Danish Championship (DM) in Reaction Course. The feeling of standing on the podium was overwhelming and gave me a completely new belief in my abilities. This success gave me "a taste for more" (blod på tanden) to put extra effort into training, and I stopped my long runs in Vindeholme Forest, starting instead to train Judo on Tuesdays and Thursdays. With Jiu-Jitsu on Mondays and Wednesdays, I now trained four times a week, and martial arts truly became the center of my life.

My relationship with Torben Feldskov developed during this period into far more than just a coach-student relationship. He became a mentor and a confidant whom I regarded as a bonus father figure, even though he never had a relationship with my mother. Our connection extended far beyond training. I visited him privately at Jødevej 28, where, funnily enough, I later came to live myself, and in the long conversations about life we had over lots of micro popcorn, he taught me important lessons about the world.

These moments built a foundation of trust and mutual respect that taught me that a true mentorship is just as much about listening and guiding in everyday life as it is about teaching in a dojo (training hall). This holistic approach, connecting techniques with the personal sphere, has since become one of the fundamental pillars of San Chi Dao and my own life. Precisely as Torben was for me, I strive today to be more than just an instructor to my own students. I try to create a space where they can grow as whole individuals, both on and off the training floor, with the same care and attention I myself received.

In contrast to the physical discipline that filled my daily life, I also met another important role model who showed me that strength is not only about physical ability. Kurt Holmgaard, the stamp dealer in Nakskov, was paralyzed on one side. I helped him bundle his stamps, and in return, I not only received stamps but also lots of tea and the most valuable conversations about life. Kurt taught me that one can be incredibly strong and wise, even when the body fails. These three male figures – bonus father Bent, stamp dealer Kurt, and my mentor Torben – have all had a profound and crucial influence on the person I am today. They taught me to see strength in different forms and to understand that mentorship can arise where one least expects it.

In 1993, we moved to Nakskov town, which opened a new chapter and led me to a crucial step in my development. I began showing up for Saturday training at the Karate Club. Here, I learned a completely new truth about martial arts: free fighting (frikamp). As a 'Jiu-Jitsu and Judo kid,' I was accustomed to close-range fighting but was completely unprepared for punches and kicks. I quickly learned to take a beating, and although it hurt, it only gave me more "a taste for more". Since my first, brutal Judo training, I had gotten used to the fact that pain was a natural part of training. Karate was merely a different type of pain, and I refused to let it stop me. In time, I learned not only to parry and block but also to hit back.

Karate became an invaluable supplement to my Jiu-Jitsu training, which I then considered my primary style. Each style taught me a new part of the martial art, and it was during this period that I began to see the synergy between the different styles – a principle that later became the foundation for San Chi Dao. I continued with this free fighting training as often as possible until 1999, when I started the Wing Tsun instructor training in Copenhagen. But my journey was to offer many more surprises before that happened.

November 5, 1994, marked an important milestone when I received my blue belt in Jiu-Jitsu. Just as important, however, was that this event coincided with an unexpected and decisive change: my mentor and instructor, Torben Feldskov, suffered a severe anterior cruciate ligament injury in both knees. He underwent prolonged surgeries and, unfortunately, could not return to the club as an instructor. This left a void that I and the other instructors suddenly became responsible for filling. Until then, I had been an assistant instructor, but all at once, I was at the head of the team.

This created a challenging situation. I was only 19 years old, weighed 54 kg, and suddenly stood responsible for teaching people who were much older and larger than me. In my mind, instructors were the cool ones, and I had naively thought that if you became an instructor, you must also be cool. That was logical... haha. But the reality was different: I was definitely not cool. I was young, insecure, and with limited experience. Yet, it was precisely that insecurity that taught me an invaluable lesson in leadership.

My task was not to be cool, but to be honest, to share what I knew, and to learn together with my students. I had to learn to navigate the respect associated with my title and balance it with the humility that comes with being a young leader. It became a formative period that taught me that leadership is not about having all the answers, but about having the courage to lead the way, even when you doubt yourself.

With the responsibility as an instructor came a realization: I was young and hungry for knowledge. The Jiu-Jitsu curriculum I was supposed to teach was very open. One had to demonstrate a specific number of techniques to graduate, but there were no fixed requirements for which techniques were to be shown. For example, one had to demonstrate four finger locks, but it was up to the instructor to choose which four. It was a large part of my development that I was forced to find the answers 'myself'. This "lack" of a fixed curriculum created a space for curiosity and innovation – a space that, in retrospect, helped to kick things off for San Chi Dao even back then. The requirement was instead that the techniques had to be performed with both power and control, and my only way to fill that role with integrity was by expanding my horizon.

My reaction was to throw myself into all available material that could make me a better teacher and martial artist. My first step was to build a personal library. I ploughed through the local library, bookstore, and kiosk, buying every book and magazine I could find on the subject. Books such as Jiu Jitsu Do by Wim Bosma and Mario Den Edel, Hwa Rang Do by Joo Bang Lee, Ninja by Stephen Hayes, Jiu Jitsu by Robert Clark, and, of course, Bruce Lee’s books, including the momentous Tao of Jeet Kune Do, were read and reread.

This library, which today holds around 300 books, was the foundation for my teaching. Later came training videos with icons such as Gokor Chivichyan and Gracie Jiu-Jitsu. Together with martial arts magazines like Black Belt Magazine, I created a true knowledge bank. This hunt for knowledge taught me that I shouldn't just learn one style, but that by studying different systems, I could create a deeper and more holistic understanding – an approach that would become a cornerstone of San Chi Dao.

Parallel to self-study, gaining practical experience was crucial. I participated in as many training camps, weekend training sessions, and tournaments as possible. In particular, the annual Jiu-Jitsu summer camp was a vital source of inspiration, where I had the opportunity to learn from top instructors from both Denmark and abroad. One of the instructors who made a particularly strong impression on me was Mario Den Edel from the Netherlands, whose passion and skills inspired me deeply. Our connection was so strong that in the summer of 1998, I visited him in Holland. Here, I saw his club, which was a combined fitness and martial arts center. It was a moment that planted a seed in my mind; an idea of creating a similar place, which I would later bring to fruition. Besides Mario, Johnny Bernaschewice from Belgium was also a highly respected instructor I was incredibly pleased to learn from, and of course, Danish instructors such as Ronald Vestergaard and Steen Syrak Hansen, among others.

This period was characterized by an almost feverish hunt for knowledge and experience, which taught me that a true martial artist and teacher never stops learning. It is an eternal journey that requires humility and an unstoppable curiosity, regardless of how much one knows.

In 1995-96, I served my military service in Farum as a medic. For me, military service was not a break from martial arts but a unique opportunity to accelerate my training and delve into various styles. After the daily soldier service, I suddenly had a whole new spectrum of possibilities and freedom to explore martial arts clubs in North Zealand and the Copenhagen area. I visited Farum Judo Club and a wide range of other clubs, both larger and smaller, to learn everything I could. Especially two places became very important to me and, later, for San Chi Dao: Wing Tsun Centre on Vesterbrogade and Soke Yamaue’s club on Kastanie Allé in Vanløse.

Simultaneously with all this exploration and curiosity, I worked purposefully to achieve my brown belt in Jiu-Jitsu. This happened under the most demanding conditions. After completing my military service, I took the train the many kilometers to Nakskov for graduation training. The journey from Farum to Nakskov took approximately four hours – each way – depending on which train I could catch.

After the training, I took the train back. Often, I didn't return until after the last bus from the station had left. The final three kilometers to the barracks, I had to walk in the dark and sneak into bed so as not to wake the other soldiers who were sleeping after a long day of hard work. This intense 10-month period of constant travel, physical exhaustion, and uncompromising dedication taught me that if you are passionate about something, there are no obstacles that can stop you. It was a lesson in endurance and a confirmation that achieving mastery is not just about talent, but about the willpower you exhibit when everyone else gives up.

Towards the end of my military service, marked by countless train rides, I made an important decision. I wanted to seek out my biological father, and the idea of free public transport, which my military service provided, served as a practical catalyst for doing so. No matter where in the country he lived, the financial burden was removed. It was a fortunate coincidence that it turned out he lived in Nykøbing Falster, one of the stations where I changed trains anyway on my weekly commute between Farum and Nakskov. I was welcomed with open arms, received his life story, and met the rest of my family on that side in the following years. It was a meeting that created a new beginning and filled a void I had been carrying.

After completing my military service in the summer of 1996, my journey took a new turn when we bought Jødevej 11 in Nakskov. It was a cheap handyman's special, where everything had to be done from the ground up – a challenge that perfectly suited the new phase of my life. My father (John Ufone) was a trained carpenter, and the plan was that by living together—my brother, my father, and I—we could not only save money but also make up for the lost years. The house was more than just a building; it became a tangible project, a symbolic act where we could collectively rebuild a family life and a home, precisely as we built the house from the foundation.

In the summer 1997, I got 1. Dan black belt in Jiu jitsu: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=66AL0J-XBiw&list=PL3bE6kNbbY9YQ3VOcrhKbHx_gxVDfMBCi&index=16

From the summer of 1996 to the summer of 1997, I worked at Poul Frederiksen's plant nursery in Nakskov. It was a job in the fresh air, where you got exercise, but it was also characterized by unskilled, repetitive work. While moving potted plants around, my mind started daydreaming about training and techniques. But even though I enjoyed the physical aspect of the work, it became clear to me that this was not where I should spend the rest of my life. I was young, and I was driven by a deeper passion.

The daily, hard physical effort began to drain my strength, and I realized that I didn't have the necessary energy for evening training. It was a turning point for me. I had to make a choice and prioritize what was most important. After a discussion with the boss, I quit my job. In the following days, I worked on backlogged tasks and managed on social assistance for a few months. Although it was an uncertain period, it was a conscious choice to make room for what truly mattered to me: my development as a martial artist and as a person. It was a lesson in listening to one's inner voice and acting on one's ambitions, even when it feels uncertain.

In December 1997, a new opportunity arose when I was told that I could always get a job as a taxi driver in Copenhagen. My immediate thought was that I didn't know Copenhagen, but the chance to combine a job with a passion for training was too tempting. It was a chance to get to know a new city, while also having a job where I sat still. This would hopefully give me more energy for evening training and simultaneously allow me to explore all the martial arts clubs in the Copenhagen area. I took a six-week course to get the taxi driver's license itself and felt ready.

But there was an extra hurdle I had to overcome: to drive a taxi in Copenhagen, one had to have a special driving certificate, colloquially known as the 'flæskekortet' (the 'pork card'). It was the city's way of ensuring that drivers could navigate, and as a young man from Lolland who only knew Tivoli, Palads Cinemas, and Strøget, I knew I wouldn't stand a chance in a practical test.

Fortunately, the test was only theoretical. I contacted the right authorities and was sent all the material I needed to pass. It was an enormous amount of information, covering everything from sights, churches, ministries, to all the main roads from the city center and out to the suburbs.

My approach was systematic and uncompromising. I started reading and memorized everything. I drilled all the necessary routes, sights, and locations and showed up for the test. The result was zero errors. Although it was 'just' a taxi test, it was an important milestone for me. It confirmed that the same dedication and methodical approach I used in my martial arts training could also be used to overcome any challenge, no matter how impossible it might seem.

I contacted several taxi owners, applied for jobs, and just two days later, I was sitting in a large, expensive Mercedes in Nørrebro – ready to start. This was before the time of GPS, so my only lifesaver was a Krak map. My plan was to start driving from the Copenhagen Central Station, the only place in the city I knew, and gradually get to know the rest of the city from there. I remember my first customers very clearly: three young men who needed to go to the Bella Center. When I had to ask if they could show me the way, or if I should look it up on the map, I got the reply: "You don't stand in front of Copenhagen Central Station and not know the way to the Bella Center, damn it!"

But instead of panicking, I displayed a coolness I had learned through my martial arts training: stay calm and find a solution. I gave them two choices: they could either show the way, and I would wait to start the taximeter, or they could take another taxi. They chose the first solution, and I got my first proper Copenhagen drive, where I learned to navigate the city and the mentality that came with it. For the first three weeks, I stuck to driving out from the Central Station until I dared to drive across the city.

It was an experience I would not have been without, but a year later, I had to quit. Although the job fulfilled my plan to get to know the city and the clubs, the way I was living was not sustainable. I lived in my Toyota Hiace van, worked 7–9 days straight, and was home in Nakskov for 2–3 days. It was a lesson that even if you achieve your goals, the manner in which you do it must also be in balance. But I left the job with a feeling that I had conquered Copenhagen – both as a city and as a place to train.

While living in my van and driving a taxi, I also finally got the opportunity to pursue a dream: to train martial arts every day in Copenhagen. I was allowed to train with the Danish National Judo Team at Grøndals Centre on Hvidkildevej 64. Here, I was the only Jiu-Jitsu practitioner, and although I was not part of the national team myself, it was a great honor and privilege to train with some of Denmark's absolute best practitioners. Their respect and trust showed that my dedication and skills as a Jiu-Jitsu fighter were acknowledged. This training was an invaluable experience and a confirmation that the right path for me was to combine different styles and systems to achieve a deeper understanding of martial arts – a philosophy that would become the foundation for San Chi Dao.

I took a taxi job back in Nakskov, but it quickly became clear that it was a temporary solution. I sat still too much, and although the job was a source of income, the lack of physical activity drained my energy and my passion. I had to move on. During a period of job searching, I took a truck course in May 1998, and in October 1998, I obtained a bus driver's license at AMU. Although neither immediately led to a job, the license was an investment in the future. Years later, when the youth schools in West Lolland needed a driver to take the children to our fitness center, I could use it. Here, I gained a unique opportunity to combine transportation with teaching fitness, and it was another example of how the skills I acquired could be applied across different areas and create synergy.

In the years 1998 - 1999, I gained another training partner, Allan Bengtson. At that time, my week was intensely packed with martial arts: Jiu-Jitsu Monday and Wednesday, Judo Tuesday and Thursday, and Karate on Saturday. Therefore, our intensive Wing Chun/Wing Tsun training with Allan primarily took place on Friday and/or Sunday.

Allan was an important support, and he also contributed initially as an assistant instructor at the fitness center on Løjtoftevej. Although Allan moved to North Zealand shortly after, we still have a strong connection. He is to this day one of my close friends, despite the geographical distance, and our close collaboration during these formative years was crucial for my development.

After a period of job searching, on February 22, 1999, I started a free youth education that I was allowed to put together myself with student counselor Dorte Rasmussen. The education was set to last until August 10, 2001, and was a conscious step towards pursuing my dream: to be able to make a living from martial arts. The idea had followed me for years and had been reinforced since I visited Mario Den Edel in the Netherlands in 1998 and saw his combined fitness and martial arts center. The original plan was to spend a year abroad as part of the education, where I would train with the renowned Gokor Chivichyan to continue my grappling education. I never managed to realize this dream, as an unexpected opportunity arose: I was offered a fitness center in Nakskov, which would become my first step on the long road to realizing my vision. But more on that later – now back to the education.

In early February 1999, Dorte Rasmussen and I sat down to structure my education. We decided that I would spend the time until August 9, 1999, on self-study, in preparation for the instructor training in Wing Tsun in Copenhagen. The plan was then to spend a year abroad, although the last part of the education was deliberately kept open so that I could adjust it based on the experiences of the first two years.

In the summer 1999 I got 2. Dan black belt in Jiu jitsu: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FU9DjL_Fd_k&list=PL3bE6kNbbY9YQ3VOcrhKbHx_gxVDfMBCi&index=17

The period from August 1999 to June 2000 became the most intense and dedicated training period of my life. Every day was a race against time. I took the train from Nakskov early in the morning and spent five hours in Copenhagen training Wing Tsun. Afterwards, the journey went back to Nakskov, where I continued my training in the evenings. Monday and Wednesday were dedicated to Jiu-Jitsu, while Tuesday and Thursday were marked by Judo. On weekends, I was fully engaged in training my brother in everything I had learned in Copenhagen during the week.

It was an incredibly tough time, but also the best. To be able to dedicate oneself fully to one's passion was an enormous joy and a luxury I had dreamed of for years. The constant travel, the many hours in the training hall, and the intellectual immersion in the world of martial arts filled every waking moment. This time cemented my belief that the true path to mastery goes through total dedication and a curiosity that knows no stylistic boundaries. It was here that the foundation, which would later shape San Chi Dao, was truly cast.

In the spring of 2000, I heard that another instructor was planning to open a Wing Tsun school in Nakskov. Within Wing Tsun, there was a rule that each city could only have one school to avoid internal competition. Since my own plan was to start a school after completing my education, I faced an unexpected obstacle. The dream I had could no longer wait.

One weekend, I therefore went to the Fitness Center on Løjtoftevej 22. My thought was to ask if I could borrow their aerobics hall to start my Wing Tsun school. I met the owner, Henrik, and over the next weekends, we got chatting. He had seen my passion, and out of the blue, he asked me if I would like to take over the entire center? It was a 'WOW' moment. In my mind, I had imagined that it would take ten years to realize my dream of a combined fitness and martial arts center, similar to the one I had seen in Holland in 1998. At first, I thought it was impossible, as I had no money. But Henrik reminded me that I had a paid-for house and that 'that's the same as money.' He was right. Back in 1996, we had bought a handyman's special that my father, my brother, and I were in the process of renovating. Suddenly, I had the opportunity to realize a dream that had arisen long before and which I thought lay far in the future.

I contacted Dorte Rasmussen, my student counselor, and explained the situation to her. For her, it was not a problem. We simply amended the education plan to now include the new elements. Instead of a year abroad, I made an agreement with one of the instructors in Copenhagen, David Tvilling, for a year of private lessons from the summer of 2000 to the summer of 2001. Next, I approached the bank to see what they thought of the new plan. They were impressed that a young man of 25, together with his brother, had bought and renovated their first house. They thought it sounded like a "super fresh idea" to want to start a martial arts school combined with fitness, and they said yes.

On May 1, 2000, I became the owner of a combined fitness and martial arts center, exactly as I had envisioned. It was a special moment to take over the Fitness Center on Løjtoftevej 22 in Nakskov. In addition to strength training equipment, the center contained a solarium and various forms of aerobics, and it also came with a staff of instructors, cleaning, and reception personnel. It was an odd feeling to be the boss of people who were older than myself, but fortunately, everyone was accommodating and helpful. For the first period, things continued as they always had, with the small, but crucial, change that Wing Tsun would now also be taught – my first big dream had come true.

The year 2002 was an important year that marked two milestones in my journey: I achieved my 1st Master Grade in Wing Tsun, and at a Royce Gracie seminar in Copenhagen, I received my blue belt in Gracie Jiu-Jitsu. Despite my deep immersion in Wing Tsun, I still spent a lot of time on Jiu-Jitsu and groundwork, and it was during this period that I truly began to wonder about the Wing Tsun curriculum. It was a system where the training was very compartmentalized; for example, we trained sensitivity exercises (Chi-sau) with parallel feet, while we had leg contact during free fighting (Lat-sau). We were told that the more advanced leg programs leading to leg contact training (Chi-gerk) were considered secret and were only introduced to the higher Master Grades. This secrecy was a stark contrast to the openness I was accustomed to from Judo and Jiu-Jitsu, where all techniques were shared, and progression was primarily a matter of hard work. The advantage, however, was a fixed and very structured curriculum, which made the teaching more organized.

This discovery sparked a deep reflection for me. Why wait so long to integrate such a crucial part of the training? It was here that the seed for the San Chi Dao philosophy truly began to sprout; an idea of collecting the best from several worlds into one holistic and open system.

Simultaneously, a unique opportunity arose. Several of the Wing Tsun instructors in Copenhagen worked as bouncers in the nightlife and discovered that I had a Jiu-Jitsu background. They were very interested in this, as chain punches (a barrage of strikes) are not always the most appropriate to use in a doorman situation. This resulted in an invaluable exchange: instead of paying for private lessons, I could now trade my Jiu-Jitsu knowledge for their Wing Tsun knowledge. I was especially pleased to be able to train with Jesper Lundqvist and Martin Brogaard. This period confirmed for me that the most effective and usable skills are often those that can be adapted to the real world – an insight that became a central part of my own system.

The compartmentalization of the Wing Tsun curriculum still bothered me. I could not understand why one had to wait until the 5th Master Grade to see and train Chi-gerk – the advanced footwork. In an attempt to get answers to my questions and to accelerate my knowledge, I contacted Dai-Sifu Allan Jensen in Copenhagen to hear if he would give me private lessons. He kindly told me that he unfortunately did not have time, and that the answers lay in the programs for the higher Master Grades. However, he encouraged me to take private lessons with the other instructors in the center. I thanked him for the conversation, but at the same time, I thought that it would potentially take 20 years to get that far. I felt truly stuck with the limited footwork we were training at the time.

This frustration led to a decisive meeting at the Wing Tsun summer camp in Bogense in 2003. Here, I met Benno Westra (now Benno Wai) from the Netherlands, who told me that if I came to Holland, he would show me the secret programs for the higher Master Grades. Happy and expectant, I travelled to Amsterdam shortly after. But when I arrived, I received disappointing news: Benno had spoken with the Sifus in Germany and Denmark, who had agreed that training beyond an apprentice's current grade was prohibited. Benno instead offered to correct the details related to my next grade, the 2nd Master Grade. This was certainly an invaluable help, and I took important details home, but my deeper curiosity was not satisfied, and it confirmed to me that the structured, but closed, world of traditional martial arts was not my path. It was an experience that reinforced my desire to create a system that was open and holistic.

In the autumn of 2003, frustrated by the secrecy, I found an instructor online named Sifu Martin Dragos, who offered to teach the entire Wing Tsun system. I called him, told him my story and my experiences in Holland. He assured me that he was genuine and that I did not need to pay for the first training session if I was not satisfied. I thought 'wow' and left for South Germany, filled with hope.

Already after the first training, I was convinced: this was what I had been looking for. This led to several trips to Germany in the spring of 2004, and I filmed all our training so as not to forget a single detail. After my second trip, I was convinced that Wing Tsun programs should be done with legs and arms at the same time. Waiting with the 'advanced' leg techniques until the 4th and 5th Master Grade made no sense in my head. I therefore systematically began to modify the fighting sections so that they were always trained with the front leg forward and with leg techniques integrated into all programs. I also created specific weapons fighting sections, which I felt Wing Tsun had lacked, and added a longer locking fighting section.

On August 21, 2004, I took my last trip to Germany. Here, I completed training in the long pole and double knives, which are normally only taught at the 6th and 7th Master Grade. As a conclusion to my training, Sifu Martin Dragos awarded me my Sifu title. A week later, on September 1, 2004, we officially broke away from traditional Wing Tsun. We called the first version of the new system Wing Tsun Do, as it was Wing Tsun, just with a different path (Do/Dao). Right from the start, we had integrated parts of the new curriculum.

At the same time, we expanded with schools in Sakskøbing and Nykøbing F., where Henrik Hansen was responsible for the school in Sakskøbing, while I myself taught in Nykøbing twice a week for ten years until I closed it. The school in Sakskøbing existed for about two years, while the school in Nakskov continued.

The year 2005 became a year of sharp contrasts that reminded me of life's deep cycle. Early in the year, a tragedy struck when my biological father, John Ufone, passed away far too young, at only 52 years old. It was a great shock to us all. After a fall from scaffolding at his workplace, he had visited the hospital but had gone home again. The next morning, his colleagues sadly found him deceased in his home.

As they say, "The Lord gives and the Lord takes," for only a few months later, on March 22, my first daughter, Celeste, was born. Her arrival in the world came as a light after a dark time. The deep sorrow of losing my father was replaced by an endless joy and a new sense of responsibility. This year taught me in the hardest possible way that life is a cycle of loss and renewal, and that even in the deepest grief, a new hope can be born.

The year 2006 was marked by the daily routine of running the fitness center at Løjtoftevej 22, but a very special event broke the fixed rhythm. For the first time in my career, I was invited abroad to hold a seminar. The invitation came from Sifu Martin Dragos in Germany, under whom I had trained to learn the Wing Tsun system. To be invited by such a recognized master was an enormous acknowledgment of my knowledge and my work in developing a new system.

The seminar was recorded on video and later shared on YouTube. The video, titled "Complet Ground-fighting Seminar!" and is approximately 1 hour and 5 minutes long, shows instruction in groundwork. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ngsPTFvb1Mc&t=3306s

It was an experience that confirmed that the path I had chosen was the right one, and that the holistic approach behind San Chi Dao has a value that extends beyond Denmark's borders.

The year 2007 marked a major milestone in my journey. After a year of intensive work on establishing the system's foundation, I published the "Wing Tsun Do basis bogen" (Wing Tsun Do Basic Book)

(https://bibliotek.dk/materiale/wing-tsun-do_jan-dahl/work-of%3A870970-basis%3A26856388?type=bog&tid=uoDPK17550131538323915329224).

This book, which I later came to regard as San Chi Dao 1.0, was my first step towards sharing my life's work with the world in a concrete form. The text and techniques were the result of my many years of research and training, and to bring the vision to life, my twin brother participated as a model in the illustrative pictures. The graphic work was done by my friend Glenn. I have known Glenn since I was 18, and he has followed me through thick and thin and been a good companion in everything from practical tasks to socializing and private life. Glenn, who also happens to be skilled with computers, also helped design our logo, which we created when we started out on our own on September 1, 2004. The name and shape have been slightly modified, but it is still the same basic logo that San Chi Dao has today.

It is a great source of pride for me that the book is today available in Danish libraries as a testament to the early development of my system. It represents not only a year of hard work but also an era of great dreams and ambitions that eventually grew into the San Chi Dao we know today.

Simultaneously with the book's publication, the digital presence began to take shape, although it was characterized by some messiness. On June 18, 2007, I uploaded the first videos to YouTube, recorded during training in Nykøbing F. Later, on April 1, 2011, I created a new YouTube channel, and for reasons I no longer precisely remember, I deleted the first videos and re-uploaded them to the newer channel. The two channels were separated into a Jan Dahl channel and a Martial Arts channel (today San Chi Dao). I was not so aware of my digital footprint then, but I am glad that the early videos still exist as a window into the initial phase of San Chi Dao's development.

In the years leading up to 2007, my body sent clear signals that the pace was too high. The intense daily life, where I ran a fitness center seven days a week, managed rental properties, and simultaneously maintained a family life, was severely draining my energy. I made a decision to convert the center into a reception-free key-access center to eliminate the wasted time I experienced behind the counter.

The years around 2007 were altogether a turbulent period. During the summer, my then-partner and I separated, shortly after our daughter, Celeste, was born. Although the great love for our daughter was the driving force, the breakup was a profound experience that initiated a time of grief and uncertainty.

Shortly after, a new hope arose when I met a new woman. But amidst the new relationship and the continued intense daily life with both center management and properties, my body finally gave up. During the conversion process of the fitness center itself, I collapsed from sheer overwork. I lay in bed shaking for three days before I could cautiously get back on my feet. It was a frightening, but necessary, lesson that confirmed that even the greatest passion has a limit – and that one must prioritize one's own health to be able to continue one's journey.

These two paths in my life – the professional and the personal – were inextricably linked. They forced me to re-evaluate my priorities and confirmed that stability and balance were crucial if I was to continue my journey. The deep exhaustion taught me that one must listen to the body's signals, while the personal change reminded me that even in the midst of turbulence, a new, stronger foundation can grow.

The years between 2007 and 2009 became a time of reconstruction and renewed focus. The decision to convert the fitness center into a key-access center meant that I gained more time to recover and focus on my new daily life. This period gave me space to immerse myself in my martial arts, but also to build a new family life. Our relationship developed, and in time, we began to talk about the future.

The years 2009 - 2011 cemented this newfound stability, as my second daughter, Monique, was born on May 1st. Her arrival initiated a period of deep calm and joy. Family life with two daughters became a daily reminder that even amidst ambitious projects and new challenges, it is the close relationships that give life its deepest value. In the years following, we built a new and solid foundation for our family, filled with love and expectation.

However, the idyllic time was brutally interrupted by an incomprehensible tragedy. The mother of Monique and I were expecting our second daughter, who had already been named Natalie. We had long since planned her arrival and furnished a room, just as we had bought clothes and equipment. But late in the pregnancy, we received the terrible news that Natalie had a large cancerous tumor. It is one of the hardest messages one can possibly receive, and it shook our world.

On January 8, 2011, everything ended at the hospital, where the pregnancy was terminated. Shortly after, Natalie was buried at Birket Cemetery. Natalie was laid to rest next to her maternal grandfather, who had passed away shortly before Monique’s birth. It was in these moments that we were truly tested – confronting life's deepest injustice. It was a time when my philosophy of martial arts, and the fight itself, truly proved its worth; namely, finding a way to cope with the ups and downs that life offers, and finding a way to navigate through the terrible situations that no human being deserves to experience.

But life goes up and down, and fortunately, the year 2011 also brought renewed hope. On November 24, my third daughter, Matilde, was born. Her arrival was a deeply welcome light in a time of great sorrow. She reminded us that life insists on continuing, and that even after the greatest losses, joy and love can grow again. Her birth closed a heavy chapter and opened the door to a new, brighter future.

The year 2012 was a turbulent year that brought both great recognition and a significant personal loss. Amidst all the personal and professional struggles, I had the opportunity to delve deep into my system, Wing Tsun Do (San Chi Dao 1.0), with the highly renowned master, Soke Yamaue. Yamaue is known for attracting top practitioners from all styles, and to be allowed to demonstrate my skills and explain the theories behind my system in front of him meant an incredible amount to me. In a 10-hour grading, I achieved the prestigious 5th Dan in WTD (Wing Tsun Do), which later became San Chi Dao. Receiving his recognition and support was the final confirmation that the path I chose to follow was the right one.

But in the same period, I experienced a major personal upheaval when the mother of Monique and Matilde and I separated. Although the recognition of my work was a great victory, the breakup was a heavy loss. The two events stood in stark contrast to each other and reminded me once again that life insists on offering both ups and downs.

The year 2013 was marked by another great loss. My mother, Lone Dahl, died at the age of 56, and it was a loss that truly put things into perspective. The grief was made even heavier by the circumstances: shortly after an otherwise successful operation, she passed away at the hospital. This unexpected loss reminded me of life's fragility and strengthened my conviction that my martial arts philosophy is not only about physical strength but also about the mental resilience required to navigate through sorrow.

After a year marked by personal loss and grief, a new hope arose in January 2014, when I met a new woman and, with it, gained two lovely bonus children, Sabine and Sebastian. Her arrival in my life was the beginning of a new chapter and a reminder that even amidst life's greatest challenges and losses, there is always an opportunity for renewal and to find joy again. In the same period, in 2014, I also made a major professional decision to close the club in Nykøbing F.. After 10 years of intense operation, it was a necessary conclusion that gave me space to reflect on my journey and the direction I wanted to take.

In the time that followed, my health continued to give me problems, and in 2016, it became clear that I had to change course and slow down the pace even further. For a period, I stopped teaching publicly and focused only on private students to take better care of myself. During this time, my personal friend and training partner, Kenn (Ninja) Nielsen, and I began to supplement our training with Tai Chi under Sifu Adam Mizner, whom we followed online. This practice offered a completely new approach to martial arts – one that focused on listening to the body's signals and restoring the balance I had lost. The training was a crucial supplement to my Wing Tsun Do / San Chi Dao system and a new way to nourish both body and mind, with a greater focus on internal calmness, healing, and the internal aspects of martial arts.

After a period where I had slowed down the pace and focused on my health and internal training, 2017 was a year that brought an important confirmation. I achieved my 6th Dan in Wing Tsun Do (San Chi Dao 1.0) from Soke Yamaue.

Here is a short clip of the grading: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=46bTx34fiZ4&t=2s

This grading was more than just a title; it was a deep confirmation that even though my health was not fully recovered, my system and I were on the right path. Through my Tai Chi training, I had found a little more calm and balance. It was an acknowledgment from Yamaue of the new direction my system had taken. It was an important step forward that reminded me that progress does not always happen in a straight line, but that perseverance and belief in one's own path ultimately bear fruit. The 6th Dan gave me renewed faith that I could continue to build on my life journey with even greater depth and conviction.

The year 2018 was marked by yet another style that enriched my understanding of martial arts: Aiki Jujutsu Enryukai. It all began when a former student from the club in Nykøbing F, Søren, enthusiastically told me about his Sensei, Ole Kingston. Initially, I was dismissive, as my experience with Aiki Jujutsu, in general, was that the style was very rigid and formal, and it did not suit our more fluid and changeable approach.

But Søren piqued my interest when he told me that Ole Kingston was a student of Okamoto Seigo. I had seen him on YouTube many years ago, and his demonstrations seemed almost magical. I therefore asked Søren to contact Ole and ask if I could visit. I was met by one of the kindest and most accommodating people I know, who, in addition to being in a wheelchair, possessed knowledge and skill of an absolute top-class level. From the outset, I was hooked.

Ole's style of Aiki Jujutsu had many cool details, and I immediately saw similarities with Tai Chi. The two systems complemented each other very well, especially when looking at the underlying principles. This new knowledge became a great gift to San Chi Dao. I often say that the internal is the "spices" in martial arts. Of course, you need a basic foundation (gravy and potatoes), but it is the spices that make it all interesting. Spices alone are not enough, and you see some masters attempt this in various styles, which rarely goes well. The best masters are those who can do it all. Just my opinion.

The period from 2016 to 2020 was an intense phase of deep immersion and refinement of San Chi Dao. During these years, my primary training partners were Morten, Malthe, and Jonas Nielsen. Jonas, who has been with me since around the year 2000, went all-in with private training around 2017 and became my primary partner in the work of developing the San Chi Dao programs. Later, Daniel Rasmussen also joined and has contributed physically to a large part of the work.

Parallel to this project, I trained Tai Chi with Kenn and drove to Copenhagen once a month with Jonas to train Aiki Jujutsu. This fixed routine was, however, interrupted when Corona hit the world, but fortunately, it was resumed when the restrictions were lifted. Jonas and I are still driving (2025) to Copenhagen once a month to train with Ole and all the other fantastic people in his club.

The year 2020 marked a new and important phase when I officially launched the system under the name San Chi Do.

In the subsequent years, which formed San Chi Dao 2.0, we worked intensely to refine the curriculum. Together with Morten and Malthe, we polished all transition elements and old pitfalls, ensuring that the system became more fluid and robust. This collective effort was crucial for San Chi Dao to mature and stand stronger than ever before.

The year 2021 unfortunately brought a heavy farewell to one of the most important mentors in my life. Kurt Holmegård, the stamp dealer in Nakskov, was more than just an acquaintance; he was a father figure and a constant source of calm and support. His passing on May 31, 2021, at the age of 83, left a great void. Kurt was the most agreeable and peaceful person I knew – a remarkable trait, as he was struck by a cerebral hemorrhage at the age of just 46, which paralyzed his entire one side. Despite this, he lived on with an inner strength and down-to-earth wisdom that I often sought advice from. Even today, when I face life's toughest challenges – whether personal crises or complex decisions in the development of San Chi Dao – I often turn inward and ask myself the question: "What would Kurt have done?" The memory of him is a continuous guide, a reminder of the value of balance, calmness, and the quiet endurance that I strive for in my own system.

The year 2022 became a turning point where I had to throw in the towel to prioritize my health. All our rental properties had to be sold, and from March 1st, I went on sickness benefits. Amidst this professional upheaval, I was hit by a heavy personal loss when my bonus-father, Bent Mogensen, died in August 2022. His passing was another nail in the coffin of a year marked by crisis.

It was a huge upheaval, but I had no choice. For months, I had been unable to go to work, and things were piling up. I was simply unable to get up and execute the task.

On November 1st, I was granted disability pension. Although it was a big change and a farewell to the working life I knew, it also gave me a new freedom. I would like to extend a special thanks to Merete for her crucial support during this process, which helped to get my case through quickly. This new phase gave me space to focus on my health and the things that truly matter to me. Even though things are moving very slowly, it is important to look at the bright side, because as long as there is life, there is hope. Moving slowly is better than standing still, even during a period where the pace is very low.

Even amidst this turbulent time, a small ray of light emerged. My training partner, Kenn, signed us up for an online course in Bagua Zhang with Sifu Demo Mitchell. This practice gave me a third angle on internal training and became the final piece in a puzzle I had been working on for years. Together with Tai Chi and Aiki Jujutsu, these three systems, along with my own arrangements, now formed the foundation for the internal part of San Chi Dao. It was a confirmation that even when life knocks you down, you can find new ways to grow, develop, and refine your passion.

The year 2023 marked the end of yet another major chapter, when the fitness center was sold in November. For 23 years, the center had been a central part of my life, a base for both my business and my passion. But after a period of serious health problems and a new direction in life, the time had come to let go.

The sale of the center was more than just a business decision; it was a release. It gave me the necessary peace to focus solely on my health and the things that matter most to me today. It was a symbol that a new phase in life had begun – one that was no longer defined by the old structures, but by the freedom to immerse myself in my martial arts, my family, and my personal development in a way that is sustainable and meaningful.

January 2024 marked an important step when I officially changed the system's name to San Chi Dao. This name change, which created San Chi Dao 3.0, was the final piece that fell into place to reflect the true essence of the system. The new name, containing 3x3 letters, aligned with the fundamental triplicity that permeates the entire system – from the three energies to the three heights and the three phases. This change was a natural culmination of years of work and finally gave the system the name it deserves.

The year 2024 also marked a personal and professional highlight when I reached my 7th Master Grade – precisely 7 years after my 6th Grade. In the intervening years, San Chi Dao had developed significantly. The system had improved, and both theories, principles, and an extra safety line on our concept had been expanded. A special milestone was gaining a deeper insight into Internal Martial Arts – a category that once seemed mysterious and unattainable. This insight has added a spice to my understanding of martial arts that I am incredibly grateful to have been allowed to experience.

To emphasize San Chi Dao's integrity and show that the system rests on a solid and recognized foundation, I asked three respected Masters to sign my 7th Master Grade diploma. These Masters, who have all trained longer than me and have a deep knowledge of martial arts, were:

Kenn Nielsen, 10th Dan and founder of Ninjutsu (Fudoshin)
Ole Kingston, the first non-Japanese to receive 4th Dan from Okamoto Seigo, and founder of Aiki-jujutsu (Enryukai)
Lasse Jensen, 7th Dan and head coach for Karate (Shin-go-ryu)

Their support was an incredible pat on the back and an honor for which I am deeply grateful. In recognition of their contribution, I appointed all three of them Honorary Members of San Chi Dao. As a side note to my daughter Celeste, who also supports me in everything I undertake, I can say that her spontaneous offer to sign my diploma was invaluable. She is, of course, an Honorary Member of San Chi Dao from birth, so instead of a title, I promise her a bag of licorice.

The year 2025 marks the beginning of a new phase. I have launched our website, where this biography, along with the rest of the San Chi Dao theory, is located. It is a work I can perform calmly and at my own pace, which is crucial for my health. Even though my health no longer allows me to travel abroad to teach, my passion and mission for San Chi Dao are unchanged. I am grateful that we live in an age of modern technology, which allows me to disseminate the system via our website and YouTube channel. For those interested in personal instruction, it is possible to come to Denmark. These aids are invaluable when health fails, and they give me a continued opportunity to live out my passion – in a way that is sustainable and meaningful to me.

On my long journey, I have never been alone. I am often asked who I train with, and who I train under myself, and the answer is complex. Over the years, I have been incredibly fortunate to meet a number of instructors who have all contributed to making me the person I am today. Names such as Jiu jitsu: Torben Feldskov, Ronald Vestergaard, Mario Den Edel, Steen Syrak Hansen. Karate: Henning, Robert and Johnny. Judo:Søren Poulsen, Jesper Lee Hillerup Hansen. Wing Tsun: Allan Bengtson, Sifu Allan Jensen, Sifu Martin Dragos. Shorinji kempo (Nord shaolin kung fu and Aiki jujutsu) Soke Yamaue. Aiki-jujutsu Sensei Ole Kingston stand out particularly in my memory. They have all shaped my path.

But my journey has also been a joint effort. Some of the people I have mentioned have made an invaluable contribution. From Jannick BL, who helped with the short stick and knife, to Kim Dahl, who helped develop the long pole programs, and Henrik Hansen and Kenn Nielsen, who contributed physically to the dummy sections. Martin Bjerge Burmeister Jensen, who was an invaluable help with the Nykøbing Falster club (2004-2014). My brother also contributed initially with the basic fighting sections (2004), all of this was in the period 2004-2016. From 2016 to 2020, my training assistants were primarily Morten, Malthe, and Jonas Nielsen.

But the truth is, there are so many more. As the story is written down many years later, I am not in control of which events stick particularly well in my consciousness. Therefore, I also want to extend a heartfelt thank you to all of you who have been there – the silent contributors, the faithful training partners, the friends who listened, and the instructors who didn't end up on the specific list, but who have nevertheless made a decisive mark. You have all, in your own unique way, contributed to the development of San Chi Dao. You are just as important, and your help and support have been indispensable. Thank you from the bottom of my heart to all of you.

Since 2004, my primary instructor, however, has been San Chi Dao itself. The system with the 27 basic combinations for each technique, which controls the three heights, and the accompanying theory, has shown me that I will never be finished. There is enough material for a lifetime. When I seek out more knowledge today, it is to expand my horizon, make new friends, and learn from some of the best in the world – and then integrate the new insights into San Chi Dao.

"My journey with San Chi Dao is the story of a system that was created, not out of isolation, but in a constant dialogue with the world around me. It is a story of gratitude and of an eternal quest for mastery. It is a journey that never ends.

Despite the limitations that life and health naturally impose on us all, my optimism for the future is unwavering. I know that I will never stop learning, and it is precisely that feeling that drives the work forward.

San Chi Dao is more than just my story; it is a collective life's work. It is a system built to last and to be carried forward by all those who find meaning in its logic. The hope is that we – collectively – can contribute to spreading this knowledge for the benefit of future generations. For it is in the community that the system's true potential lies.

Thank you for taking the time to follow my path. The journey continues."

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