Story & Lesson Highlights with Steve Baca of North Hollywood

Steve Baca shared their story and experiences with us recently and you can find our conversation below.

Hi Steve, thank you so much for taking time out of your busy day to share your story, experiences and insights with our readers. Let’s jump right in with an interesting one: What makes you lose track of time—and find yourself again?
Out of the blue, I signed up for a DJ competition having never touched a turntable and not expecting anything to come of it. I forgot about it completely. Months later, I got the call, did a few interviews, and somehow made it to the finals. I didn’t win—but I found my way back to my first passion: music. I can spin for hours and lose myself relearning music production. @yourshot_la reignited that fire and taught me how to DJ. Grateful for the unexpected turns.

Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
My name is Steve Baca. I am a 2nd-degree black belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu under Alberto Crane, a brown belt in 10th Planet Jiu-Jitsu, a Guro in Filipino Kali, a Krav Maga instructor under John Whitman and the Krav Maga Alliance, and a 6th-degree black belt in American Kenpo.
At my school in North Hollywood, we focus on Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu (Gi and No-Gi), Krav Maga, Kickboxing, and Kali. We welcome people from all walks of life and strive to create an inclusive environment for both hobbyists and competitors. Our priority is a positive, safe, and respectful culture where everyone can grow.
I love teaching and sharing knowledge, and I believe it’s just as important to continue my own training so I can bring what I learn back to my students. I believe in always being a student.

Amazing, so let’s take a moment to go back in time. Who were you before the world told you who you had to be?
I’ve never walked the same road as everyone else.
When I was young, all I wanted was music. I wanted it so badly that I chose discipline early. No drinking. No drugs. Just hours alone with a guitar, writing, practicing, chasing something I didn’t even have words for yet. Music was my way out. My way through.
One night, after playing a show at the Whisky a Go Go, I stepped off the stage and was viciously attacked. No warning. No reason. I was beaten badly, and in that moment, something inside me broke—and something else woke up.
That night changed everything.
I realized talent wasn’t enough. Passion wasn’t enough. I needed strength. I needed to know I could protect myself. I needed to stop feeling powerless.
That search led me to martial arts.
My first instructor was Frank Dux—yes, Bloodsport Frank Dux. That chapter didn’t last long, but it cracked the door open. I kept going. I moved to Pasadena and found Kenpo under Master Larry Tatum. That’s where things became real. That’s where the work began.
From there, I never stopped. I trained. I failed. I got humbled. I got back up. Over and over. Different systems. Different teachers. Different lessons. Every one of them shaped me.
Martial arts didn’t replace music—it saved me the same way music once did. It gave me structure when I was lost, purpose when I was angry, and humility when I thought I knew something.
And even now, after all these years, I don’t believe in being a master of anything.
I believe in always being a student.

Was there ever a time you almost gave up?
Then we lost our dojo in Sherman Oaks.
The owners wanted an obscene amount of money—more than we could ever afford. Just like that, the place we built, the mats, the memories, the community… gone. I seriously thought about giving it all up. About getting a 9–5. About walking away.
My wife wouldn’t let me.
She told me the truth. That I wouldn’t be happy. That it would slowly kill my spirit—and probably us with it. She’s always believed in me, even when I doubted myself. And so did my students. They stayed. They trusted me. They believed.
I had three days.
Three days to find a new home.
I found a tiny place in North Hollywood and we moved in immediately. No hesitation. No guarantees. Just faith and forward motion.
A year later, I got a call from Rafael, the owner of Valley Martial Arts. I’ve known him and his wife Joan for years. They knew my place was small. They didn’t have to help—but they did. They offered us space next to their store.
That kind of generosity changes you.
I will be forever grateful to Rafael and Joan. Forever.
This journey has taught me that when you move with integrity, when you stay true to who you are, when you refuse to quit—even when it hurts—the right people show up.
Think positive.
The universe listens.

Next, maybe we can discuss some of your foundational philosophies and views? Whom do you admire for their character, not their power?
My wife, Eartha, is my rock.
Straight up.
I’ve learned how to be tough because of life… but I’ve learned how to be kind because of her. I can be too trusting, and when I start doubting myself, she’s the one who gives me that real, no-BS, tough love. The kind that doesn’t let you quit on yourself.
She’s absolutely authentic.
What you see is what you get.
Kind, but tough.
Loving, but not soft.
She grew up in the streets of North Hollywood and she carries that strength with pride. In the graffiti world, she’s a pioneer. She goes by Omega—and if you know, you know. She’s not just an incredible artist, she’s a force. A survivor. A creator. A leader in her own right.
When the dojo fell apart… when I was questioning everything… she never questioned me. She never stopped believing. She stood next to me and said, we’re not done.
I may be the one on the mats teaching, but she’s the reason I never stopped standing.
That’s my partner.
That’s my backbone.
That’s love.

Thank you so much for all of your openness so far. Maybe we can close with a future oriented question. What is the story you hope people tell about you when you’re gone?
I hope they tell my kids that I mattered.
That I impacted their lives in some way.
That I showed up with integrity, honor, and kindness.
I hope they understand that being kind doesn’t mean you can’t be strong…
and it definitely doesn’t mean you can’t kick ass when you need to.
I hope the lessons I taught don’t end with me.
I hope they keep getting passed down, from student to student, long after I’m off the mats.
I hope the person they saw in the gym is the same person they remember outside of it.
No act. No switch. Just me.
And more than anything, I hope my teaching lives on through them.
Because that means I didn’t just train fighters…
I helped shape people.
That would mean everything.

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