Taijiquan is often misrepresented as a gentle and easily accessible practice, but in truth it stands among the most demanding and unforgiving martial disciplines, with only the narrowest possibility of genuine attainment. What is widely practiced today—slow movements in parks, wellness-oriented routines, or commercialized classes—does not even remotely resemble the severe, complex, and exacting art that was once reserved for a select few.

Its historical roots lie in the crucible of Shaolin martial training, inner cultivation, and relentless physical conditioning. Taijiquan was never conceived for casual exercise or superficial enjoyment; it was forged as a combat system that demanded an athlete of exceptional endurance, mental clarity, and resilience. Externally, the art is punishing: it requires extraordinary physical energy, coordination, and physiological control. A body must withstand years of rigorous drills, low stances, explosive strikes, and unrelenting conditioning. This external demand alone is already beyond the reach of most people.

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Yet it is the internal training, the neigong, that is even more unforgiving. Few, if any, can persevere in its practice. Neigong is slow, subtle, and almost unbearable in its tedium. It demands an intensity of concentration, an iron patience, and a capacity to endure long periods of seemingly monotonous and incomprehensible effort. For many, it is boring, obscure, and intolerably difficult to sustain, and yet without this internal transformation, there can be no real Taijiquan. This is why genuine depth in the art has always been the province of a vanishingly small minority who can endure both the external rigor and the internal austerity.

Historical accounts leave no room for misunderstanding. Figures such as Yang Banhou, son of Yang Luchan, are remembered for their ferocity and pitiless standards. He famously drove away most who approached him, teaching only those capable of surviving his brutal methods. His nephew, Yang Shaohou, carried the same uncompromising severity, restricting his advanced training to a handful of trusted disciples behind closed doors, where small-frame methods of great sophistication were revealed only to those willing to endure hardship. This culture of exclusivity and harshness ensured that the true depths of Taijiquan were always beyond the reach of the many, preserved only within narrow circles.

By contrast, what is broadly available today is an imitation stripped of martial content, a set of external forms marketed for health benefits and often compared to little more than “Chinese yoga.” These diluted versions retain surface appearances while discarding the combative essence, and they leave practitioners with nothing but hollow gestures. Without the supervision of a master, attempts to self-learn through books or videos almost inevitably lead to ingrained errors and even physical damage, such as chronic joint strain from poorly executed stances. Far from achieving insight, such misguided practice can degrade the body rather than refine it.

The master–student relationship remains central, yet it is increasingly rare to find teachers of authentic lineage willing to impart the deeper methods. The tradition has always depended on discretion: teachers reveal little, and only to those who prove both loyalty and capacity. Without such access, the art collapses into empty movement.

Taken together, these realities expose why Taijiquan, in its authentic form, has always been an art of immense difficulty. Its survival has never depended on mass popularity or easy accessibility, but on the perseverance of a few individuals willing to endure its uncompromising demands. Genuine mastery has always been the achievement of the rarest minority, and the gulf between this reality and the modern, commercialized image of Taijiquan could not be wider.