Movement is FOR EVERY BODY - Coach Arra Corpuz
Movement Is for Every Body
A personal essay on advocacy, coming back, and why I open my dojo to everyone — by Coach Arra Jeuneze Corpuz
I want to tell you something I don't say often enough: I am differently abled. I have ADHD, anxiety, arrhythmia, and dyslexia. My six-year-old daughter has a better sense of direction than I do. And yet, movement has been the one constant that has held me together.
I believe movement is for every body. Not just the agile. Not just the young. Not just the competitive. Every. Body. And I don't say that from a podium of perfect health and easy circumstances. I say it from the other side of the hardest years of my life.
When I Threw Everything Away
When the pandemic hit, I thought I was done with martial arts forever. I had been a Wushu competitor and Aikido black belt for years — but the lockdowns, the isolation, the grief, and the stillness broke something in me. I threw away most of my expensive uniforms and equipment. I genuinely believed that chapter was closed.
The ADHD that had always pushed me to move, to train, to be in the world — had nowhere to go. Depression followed. My body, without the discipline of daily movement, changed drastically. I was dealing with obesity, fatty liver, high cholesterol — conditions I never imagined would apply to me, the girl who had danced ballet for over thirty years and competed internationally in Wushu.
And then, in the middle of all of that, my father died. During the pandemic, when hospitals were overwhelmed and families were separated and grief had no proper place to land.
I want you to hold that image for a moment — because I think a lot of people know that feeling. The feeling of having been someone, and wondering if you still are.
The Offer I Couldn't Refuse
In 2023, an opportunity arrived — a space at Fisher Mall in Quezon City to teach martial arts. It started as an offer to teach Aikido, and then perhaps Ballet, but circumstances led us to Wushu instead. There was just one problem: I had thrown all my Wushu uniforms and equipment away. I had to start from almost nothing.
I said yes anyway. And that yes changed everything.
By 2024 and into 2025, I had reclaimed myself completely. The athlete came back. The ballerina came back. The coach came back. I returned to international competition and won — multiple golds in Hong Kong and Chengdu, and the Excellent Coach Award in both championships. The same body that had been classified as obese was back on the international stage, competing and winning alongside the athletes I was training.
I did not do this through some perfect, uninterrupted path of discipline. I did it the same way Manny Pacquiao built his strength — by adding weight, tearing muscle, letting the body rebuild stronger, and then adding more weight again. The frustration, the setback, the grief — those were the weights. The comeback was the new muscle.
A Warning to Every Hard Worker
In 2024, I was classified as Obese 2. Today, I am almost back to my ideal weight — "almost overweight lang," as I like to say — and still actively competing and coaching internationally. I share this not to boast, but because I know exactly how I got there: sedentary work. Years of online tutoring, sitting at a desk, pouring my energy into my students' growth while quietly neglecting my own body.
I see you. The BPO worker finishing a night shift. The virtual assistant glued to a screen for ten hours. The tech professional, the freelancer, the online tutor — the noble, hardworking Filipinos who carry their families on their backs and tell themselves they'll take care of their health "later." I was you.
Here is what I want you to know: my peers — people my age — are already dependent on maintenance medications and supplements. Meanwhile, my Aikido Sensei, a senior citizen, is still in excellent health because he never stopped moving. My ballet teacher was still teaching in her 70s — graceful, straight, radiant, and strong. Movement was their medicine. Consistent, lifelong, joyful movement.
Working hard is noble. Providing for your family is honorable. But you cannot pour from an empty vessel. Your health is not just yours — it belongs to everyone who loves you and needs you. The best thing you can do for your family is still be here, healthy and present, decades from now.
The Children Other Dojos Turned Away
When I opened Wushu Arena Philippines, I made a quiet decision that I have never regretted: no one gets turned away.
I have heard stories — too many stories — of children with Asperger's or Down syndrome being turned away at the door of martial arts schools. Told, directly or indirectly, that there was no place for them here. That this wasn't for them.
I refuse that. With everything in me, I refuse it.
These children need a social circle. They need physical activity, routine, the pride of learning something with their bodies. They need to belong somewhere. Who am I — who is anyone — to tell them this door is closed?
The same is true for seniors who come to me for Taichi. For adults who haven't moved intentionally in years. For beginners who feel embarrassed beside the more advanced students. The dojo is not a stage for the already-excellent. It is a place where people become who they are capable of being — at whatever pace, in whatever body, at whatever age.
My Daughter and the Red Uniform
My daughter Luyi didn't want to do Wushu at first. Honestly, what child wants their mom to be their teacher? I understood.
But when our family traveled to Hong Kong for a competition, she was already there — flights, accommodations, the whole trip. I figured, why not? We gently encouraged her to try just one event. She agreed, somewhat reluctantly.
She won gold.
That single unexpected win lit something in her. She began training more seriously, added Aikido, and earned her yellow belt. Then, in preparation for the Chengdu International Wushu Championships, she spotted a beautiful red Taichi uniform. She wanted it. I told her, half-joking, that I would buy it if she learned the Taichi 24 routine.
She did not take it as a joke.
She went to my students — on her own — and asked them to teach her the steps. She practiced. She showed me. And I saw in her face that same fire I have felt my whole life when movement finally clicks into place.
I bought her the uniform.
In Chengdu, Luyi competed in four events and won four gold medals. She also received the Future Star Award and the Overall Champion Trophy for her infant division. She is six years old.
What I Am Building
I am an advocate of wellness — physical and mental, inseparable from each other. I am a person with ADHD who became a Mensa member. A person with dyslexia who graduated from UP and topped the board exam. A person who was obese and grieving and came back to win international gold medals. A ballet dancer of over thirty years who is also a 2nd Degree Black Belt in Aikido and a multi-awarded Wushu coach.
I am not telling you this to impress you. I am telling you this because I am proof of what I teach — that the body is not a fixed thing. That the mind is not a ceiling. That discipline applied consistently, through pain and setback and loss, produces something that cannot be taken away.
I also have a dream for Wushu in the Philippines that I want to say out loud: I want every Filipino to know that Wushu is not just for the young, the agile, or the already-trained. It is never too late to start. It does not matter if you are six or sixty, a first-timer or a veteran, neurotypical or not. Wushu has room for all of it.
I want to see events where a grandmother doing Taichi and a competitive teenager doing Changquan stand on the same stage with equal dignity. Where the judging celebrates creativity, heart, and personal growth — not just speed and athletic dominance. Where a child with special needs gets to perform and be applauded, not turned away at the door. That is the Wushu community I am building. That is the Philippines I want to help create — one dojo, one student, one open door at a time.
I am an ambassador of movement for every body. Not because it sounds good. Because I have lived it — the breakdown, the comeback, and the profound privilege of watching others find their own.
If you have ever felt like movement was not for someone like you — too old, too uncoordinated, too broken, too different — I want you to know: my door is open. It has always been open. And it always will be.
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