I walked over. My legs made their displeasure known with every step in that aching way that meant yesterday's training had decided to send a delayed invoice.
"Feet shoulder width," she said. "Knees soft. Weight forward on the balls of your feet, not your heels."
I adjusted.
She walked around me, which was exactly as difficult to ignore as it sounds given that my brain was running at reduced capacity and had fewer resources available for maintaining appropriate professional focus.
Her hand came down on my left shoulder, adjusting the angle. Firm. Corrective. Completely routine.
My nervous system sent a very unhelpful message.
"You're leaning back," she said. "When you lean back you commit your weight before you know what you're committing to. Every step should be a question your body asks the ground, not an assumption."
"Right," I said. Coherently. Like a person.
"Show me lateral movement. Side to side. Don't cross your feet."
