Earlier this week, my wife and I had an appointment to meet with an estate attorney to get all of our documents completed while we were still young and lucid. The attorney seemed very sane until she left her office to get a new notepad. While she was gone, my wife and I reviewed the walls for various awards she had won.

The awards were not for “Attorney of the Year” or for any of her volunteer efforts. The awards had titles like, “Ninja Winner with Special Weapons” and “#1 ranked in the World for Ninja Secret Weapons”. (I have changed the award names slightly to protect her identity from persistent Googlers.) When she came back into her office, a couple of simple questions launched her into a 10-minute tale of her awards. The story below is a modified version of our attorney’s story as interpreted by my incredibly adept “friend.”

---

Once upon a time, in the not-so-silent corridors of our home, my kids had embarked on a secret mission to transform themselves into Ninjas. Not just any garden-variety Ninjas, but the kind that could slice through the air silently and disappear into shadows with the ease of a ghost on a diet. Their dedication was as admirable as it was relentless. Meanwhile, their enthusiasm for my support hovered somewhere between “you’re barely trying” and “are you even our real dad?”

One day, caught between a flying nunchuck and a stealthy somersault, I ventured a timid, “What’s wrong?”

Their response was a ninja-star sharp critique of my life choices. “You’ve already made it as an attorney. All you do is exercise your brain muscles. You couldn’t be a Ninja like us,” they declared, as if the ability to draft a tight contract was nothing compared to wielding a katana in dim lighting.

Thus, inspired or perhaps shamed by their challenge, I embarked on my own covert operation: Operation Ninja Lawyer. My journey was no less fraught with peril than any ancient scroll might suggest. I dove into the mystical world of Ninja training, asking the all-important question, “How long until I can somersault over the coffee table without a trip to the ER?” The answer was a daunting “Two years at six hours per day,” a regimen that would make even the most dedicated couch potato weep.

Undeterred, I split my day into a rigorous schedule: three hours of Ninja training before work, then lawyering through the day, and ending with another three-hour session of becoming one with the shadow. My first tournament was a reality check wrapped in a humble pie—the competitive Ninja community was as welcoming as a cactus hug, with rules more complex than tax legislation.

Determined to not just participate but excel, I doubled down on my training, seeing my family less and substituting my bed for a mat more often than not. My office became a trophy gallery, a testament to broken bones and shattered expectations. My wife and kids watched this transformation with a mix of awe and concern, wondering if I was chasing shadows—literally.

The pinnacle of this saga unfolded during an interview with a fellow attorney, a kindred spirit who had turned her back on conventional parenting to pursue the elusive title of Ninja Queen in her age bracket. Her journey was marked by sacrifices and injuries, a relentless pursuit of a goal deemed “for the young and childless.”

When we shared stories of our unconventional lives—hers in the pursuit of Ninja mastery, ours in providing a haven for over 60 non-biological children—she admitted, “I couldn’t do that.”

And there it was. The perfect stalemate. She couldn’t fathom opening her home as we had, and I couldn’t imagine dedicating every waking moment to becoming a Ninja master. We were two sides of the same coin, each pursuing passions that defied conventional logic, yet bound by a mutual respect for the paths we chose not to take.

In the end, I learned that while I might not be the stealthiest Ninja in the dojo, I was mastering the art of balancing life’s various throwing stars. And perhaps, in the eyes of my children, I had earned a different kind of black belt—one in the art of trying, failing, and laughing at myself along the way.