The Myth of Perfect Form: Rethinking Movement in Strength Training

By Samuel Johnson, CSCS

I started lifting weights as a freshman in high school back in 2016. My strength coach was excellent—someone I still admire to this day. He taught me how to press, squat, hinge, and move well under load. He also taught me one of the most widely accepted rules in the weight room: never lift with a rounded back. If you deadlift or clean with spinal flexion—especially under heavy load—you’re just asking for a disc injury.

For a beginner, that rule made sense. And under that guidance, I progressed fast and stayed healthy. But after high school, when COVID disrupted my training and I tried jumping back into intense lifting on my own, I started getting hurt—my back, elbow, hip—something always seemed to flare up. I was convinced it was a form issue. So I doubled down. I became a form purist, obsessing over alignment, joint angles, and all the rules I’d absorbed: don’t dip past 90 degrees, don’t let your scapulae move, don’t round your back.

That obsession helped for a while—my technique sharpened and I got better at lifting heavy with clean, controlled form. But over time, especially as I continued learning, coaching, and rehabbing from injuries, I started questioning those rules. I noticed that I could bench deep or dip below 90 without pain. My squats had a little butt wink and never caused issues. It was like my body kept proving that these hard rules weren’t as universal as they were made out to be.

I don’t remember exactly where I first heard the term movement optimism, but I think it might’ve been during my time at Georgia Tech, from strength coach Sarah Miller. She really embraced these ideas—and it stuck with me. As I kept getting deeper into strength and conditioning, I started noticing something: a lot of really strong, capable lifters weren’t following the strict movement rules I had grown up with. They were doing Jefferson curls. They were squatting with what looked like “bad” hip positions. They trained in awkward, unorthodox ranges that would’ve made my old self cringe.

At first, it was confusing. But eventually, it clicked: maybe these movements weren’t inherently dangerous—maybe they were just different. And maybe, with smart loading, volume control, and time, the body could adapt to them like anything else. That idea made more sense to me than fear-based movement constraints. The human body is unbelievably adaptable—and the more I saw that in others (and experienced it myself), the more I started to let go of the rigid kinesiopathological model that had once shaped everything I did.

Defining the Models: Kinesiopathology vs. Movement Optimism

The kinesiopathological model is the idea that poor movement—especially repetitive or “improper” movement patterns—leads directly to injury. It assumes there are correct ways to move, and any deviation from those patterns increases risk. For example, rounding your spine in a deadlift, letting your knees travel too far forward, or dipping too deep in a push-up would be seen as red flags under this model. It’s a fear-based framework: stay in the safe positions or you’ll get hurt.

This model has value in certain contexts, especially in early rehab or when coaching true beginners. But over time, I started to see its limitations.

That’s where the idea of movement optimism comes in.

Movement optimism is the belief that the body isn’t fragile—it’s adaptable. It assumes that most positions can be trained safely if we expose the body to them gradually and intelligently. Instead of fearing flexion, rotation, or deep ranges, movement optimism treats those positions as opportunities for building strength and resilience. It’s not a denial of risk—it’s a rejection of fragility as the default assumption.

This mental shift—from protection to preparation—completely changed how I trained, coached, and approached my own injuries.

The Body Adapts—Even in the Extreme

It’s not just in the gym where this shift became obvious. We have countless real-world examples of the human body adapting to seemingly impossible conditions.

One of the clearest examples I remember are videos of rural martial artists in Southeast Asia conditioning their fists to punch through concrete or wooden posts. It’s brutal, repetitive training that causes their bones to deform over time—but those adaptations make them unbelievably resilient.

Another striking example is freedivers—people who can hold their breath for minutes at a time and descend to staggering depths underwater. Everything about that seems unnatural. The pressure, the lack of oxygen, the duration. And yet, with training, their bodies adapt.

Elite athletes do this too. Olympic throwers—especially javelin athletes—routinely train and compete in extreme ranges of spinal rotation, shoulder hyperextension, and full-body torque that most strength coaches would label “risky.” And yet, with proper progression and conditioning, they’re able to perform at world-class levels in those very positions.

The same goes for contortionists, gymnasts, circus performers, strongmen, and elite climbers—bodies reshaped by specific, intentional stress. The point is: the limits aren’t nearly as strict as we’re taught. The human body can adapt to almost anything, given enough time, progressive exposure, and consistency.

Discovering the Jefferson Curl

The Jefferson Curl became the catalyst for my shift in thinking.

For years, I dealt with recurring back injuries that made me afraid to deadlift. Every time I tried to return to conventional deadlifting, I’d end up flared up again. Eventually, I gave up on it altogether. I stuck with RDLs, which felt safer and gave me good results—but I still felt like I had lost something. The idea of picking something heavy off the floor just seemed off-limits.

But over time, I started thinking differently. I thought about those martial artists punching concrete and the freedivers pushing physical boundaries. If their bodies could adapt, why couldn’t mine adapt to controlled spinal flexion? I started to question the logic that said “spinal flexion = danger.”

I’d seen strongmen, Olympic wrestlers, and elite lifters train Jefferson Curls and lift huge weights in rounded positions. So I figured—what if I just trained my spine the same way I would any other tissue? Slowly, progressively, with intention.

I let go of the idea that my back had to stay neutral at all costs. I stopped forcing it into “safe” positions and instead gave it time to adapt. I started light, gradually loading deeper flexion. And it worked. I can now Jefferson Curl 135 pounds pain-free. That might not sound crazy—but it represents a complete mindset shift. More importantly, my back no longer flares up from flexion.

I still deal with other back issues—but I’m confident that with exposure and consistency, I’ll continue to build resilience in those positions too.

Why This Matters for Athletes and Coaches

This shift in thinking doesn’t just apply to me—it applies to how we train athletes across the board.

If the human body is this adaptable, then our training should reflect that. It doesn’t make sense to train deadlifts with a perfectly braced spine every single rep and then expect athletes to be resilient in chaotic, sport-specific positions where that alignment goes out the window.

I’m not saying we should max out in compromised positions. But I am saying we should expose athletes to them—slowly, progressively, and with intention. We need to train for the positions sport and life actually demand, not just the ones that look clean on a whiteboard.

Challenging the Kinesiopathological Model

To be clear, I don’t think the kinesiopathological model is useless. It’s just incomplete.

People like Dr. Aaron Horschig of Squat University have done a lot of good, especially in the Olympic lifting world. But his strong opposition to loaded spinal flexion, especially Jefferson Curls, is part of the problem. He often cites that these positions increase force on the spine and are inherently dangerous. Yet he also champions knees-over-toes training—something once considered dangerous but now embraced because of the body’s ability to adapt.

To me, that’s a contradiction. Why can the knee adapt to extreme ranges under load, but the spine can’t?

Much of this caution stems from Dr. Stuart McGill’s pig spine studies, which show that repeated loaded flexion can cause disc damage. But those were cadaver spines, not living, adapting human bodies. In the real world, we see athletes thriving in rounded positions—because they’ve trained them.

Movement Optimists

There are a growing number of coaches, clinicians, and athletes who embrace this view.

People like:

• Kevin Haynes (KH Movement), a chiropractor who actively promotes full-range, adaptable strength
• Alec Blenis, a coach who programs long-term, joint-resilient movement
• Eric Bugenhagen, who regularly lifts heavy in “imperfect” positions
• KneesOverToesGuy, who made a name for himself by challenging knee safety myths
• Dr. Mike Israetel (RP Strength), who backs full-ROM, adaptive training with real science

They all reject the idea that the human body is fragile. Their approach—whether or not they call it “movement optimism”—is built around the same principle: the body gets better at what it’s exposed to, especially when trained gradually and intelligently.

What the Research Says

Research on spinal flexion is mixed. Dr. McGill’s work still dominates the conversation, especially when dealing with acute or post-injury situations. Avoiding flexion during that phase can make sense.

But broader research tells a different story.

A 2020 review by Saraceni et al. concluded there is no high-quality evidence that avoiding spinal flexion in lifting prevents low back pain. Other studies show that exposure to spinal flexion—when dosed progressively—can build capacity and even reduce chronic pain.

The key takeaway? It’s not about whether a position is “bad.” It’s about whether your body is prepared for it.

Test It for Yourself

This is the conclusion I’ve come to after nearly a decade of lifting, multiple injuries, and an evolving mindset. I used to be afraid of spinal flexion. Now I train it—and I’m better for it.

But don’t take my word for it.

Explore the research. Look at both sides. Try it in your own training. Build slowly. Pay attention. Respect your body—but also challenge it.

Some movements might not be for you, and that’s fine. But don’t fear something just because it breaks a rule you learned in high school strength class. Ask better questions:
Can I train this safely? Can I build strength here? Can this help me be more resilient in the real world?

That’s what I’ve done with the Jefferson Curl. And it’s what I hope more lifters and coaches start to do everywhere.

Coach Johnson is currently interning with MTI at our Ogden facility.