MSI Press Blog

When I first started Ninja training with Brittany, I noticed something odd. Every exercise seemed to build the front of my body—my quads, my hip flexors, my abs—but not the back. I didn’t have the vocabulary for it then, but I could feel myself becoming front‑loaded. My body felt like it was tipping forward into the world instead of standing upright inside itself. I pointed out to Brittany this sense of imbalance. She didn’t give me a lecture about anatomy. She simply handed me the antidotes: a few back‑body exercises that woke up muscles I didn’t even realize had gone quiet. Within a week, I felt balanced again. Upright. Integrated. Now, years later, I’m still balanced—but I can’t remember what unbalanced me or what she gave me to fix it. So, here’s my best reconstruction. Most of us spend decades living in our front bodies. We run forward, bend forward, carry forward, type forward, cook forward, clean forward, care forward. The hip flexors tighten, the quads take over, the chest roun...

  I stand to get dressed every morning. Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s graceful. But because it keeps me alive in my own body. My left leg is fused to my hip. It doesn’t cooperate. So, the rest of me rises to the challenge. Standing to dress is my daily balance drill. Hopping up and down over curbs is my power training. Moving without holding onto anything is my quiet rebellion against decline. My late husband Carl used to sit to dress. He’d look for the cutout instead of the curb. That was his way — careful, steady, gentle. But it always worried me. I could see him aging faster than I was ready for. His habits were both a cause and a result of that slow “decay,” the kind you notice only when you love someone enough to watch closely. I tried to nudge him toward my ninja ways. He thought I was the crazy ninja lady. He wasn’t wrong. But he also wasn’t going to change. And then he died — sooner than I was ready for. I still think the way he moved through the world and the way...

Most days, Grandma Ninja can take on the world. Steep hills? No problem. Ninety‑pound garbage cans? Bring them on. Workouts with planks, glute bridges, and Russian twists? Just another morning in the dojo. But then came a pinched nerve, followed by prednisone. Not the whole‑body‑weakening, can’t‑lift‑a‑thing kind. Oh no. Prednisone chose a far more mischievous strategy. It went after my balance . Not my strength. Not my endurance. Not my ability to haul a garbage can down a 30‑degree incline while a well‑meaning neighbor tried (and failed) to “save” me from it. No — prednisone went after the tiny stabilizer muscles. The micro‑adjusters. The little ninjas inside the big ninja. And suddenly, the BOSU ball — my old friend — became a treacherous, wobbling island. One moment I was centered. The next, I was sliding off like a cartoon character stepping on a banana peel. Strength? Perfect. Coordination? Fine. Balance? On vacation. Prednisone had declared itself the new s...

  Balance was always hard for me, though I loved walking on the raised edges of sidewalks as a kid—and falling off, getting on again, falling off again. Not your most graceful "athlete"—no one would consider me an athlete (and I still don't, just someone initially enamored with the Ninja Warriors and now staying strong as a 75-year-old single mom of two disabled adults for whom I am physically and medically responsible. You might call me clumsy, at least until the U.S. Army got hold of me. Those morning calisthenics improved everything about my physicality, including my balance. And the obstacle courses—fun (except for the 6-foot wall—challenging for someone less than 5-feet tall)—really helped with understanding body and space. Proprioception —that’s the word. When Brittany got hold of me, she realized that I needed work on balance. Balance integrates proprioception, muscular coordination, and mental focus. She realized I needed help with all of these. We began with ...