This photo was taken after one of our hardest belt tests — we were all sore, sweating, and totally exhausted. But Adrian? He had that same calm, steady smile he always wore, like he was right where he belonged.

He had this quiet confidence, the kind that didn’t need to prove anything. When we sparred, he never tried to outdo anyone — he just moved with intention, patience, and respect. He was the one who reminded us that karate wasn’t just about strength or technique, but about character.

I’ll never forget how, after every class, he’d shake everyone’s hand and say, “See you next time — keep practicing.” It didn’t matter if you were a black belt or a total beginner — Adrian made you feel like you mattered.

That day, standing next to him in this picture, I felt proud. Not just of earning the belt, but of earning his friendship.

We shared a classroom wall for over twenty years, and in that time, Adrian became more than just a colleague — he was a steady presence, a quiet mentor, and, honestly, one of the kindest people I’ve ever known.

I used to hear the sounds of his classroom through the wall: the soft rhythm of him reading aloud, the way the kids would burst into laughter at one of his dad jokes, or how quiet they’d become when he was explaining something they really needed to understand. You could tell his students respected him deeply — not because he demanded it, but because he earned it every single day with patience, empathy, and care.

On tough days, I’d sometimes wander into his room during lunch just to borrow a little of that calm energy he carried. He always had time to listen, even when his plate was full — usually with some kind of leftovers Rosa had made, which he insisted were the best thing on Earth (he wasn’t wrong).

Every morning, without fail, he’d greet me with, “You got this, Tash,” and it became a kind of ritual — a small reminder that I wasn’t alone in the work we were doing.

Adrian didn’t just teach kids — he lifted up everyone around him. I still find myself listening for that voice through the wall. I miss him dearly.

Adrian used to make me laugh with how seriously he took karate — even in his fifties, he could out-spar kids half his age. But what stuck with me wasn’t the moves — it was the way he taught respect. Every student bowed not just to show form, but to show care.

He always said, “How you treat people is your real belt rank.” That was Adrian — humble, strong, and full of quiet wisdom.

Every morning before school, even when I was a teenager and “too cool,” my dad would hand me a packed lunch with a handwritten note tucked inside. Sometimes it was a silly doodle, sometimes just “You’ve got this,” but he never missed a day.

Now I do the same for my kids, and I think of him with every note I write. He taught me that small things, done consistently and with love, matter more than we realize.

OBITUARY

Adrian Barrera

June 18, 1957 – December 4, 2024

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