Former Fisk Gymnast Naimah Muhammad Shares Personal Statement on Her Experience with the Gymnastics Program

When I first heard that Naimah Muhammad was reflecting on her time with the Fisk gymnastics program in a personal statement, it struck me not just as a nostalgic look back, but as a quiet alarm bell ringing for communities far beyond Nashville’s historic Jefferson Street corridor. As someone who’s spent years covering how institutional shifts ripple through local economies and youth development networks, I grasp that when a program like Fisk’s—the first historically Black college or university (HBCU) gymnastics team in the nation—announces its closure effective 2026, the effects don’t stay confined to campus bulletin boards. They travel along transit lines, echo in rec center meetings, and show up in the quiet conversations parents have at kitchen tables in places like Atlanta’s West End, where families are already weighing what opportunities remain for their daughters who dream of flipping, vaulting, and competing on a national stage.

The news, first reported by local Nashville outlets and picked up by national platforms like Gymnastics Now and Andscape, details how alumni are organizing to save what they describe as more than just a sports program—it’s a legacy of representation. Naimah Muhammad’s personal statement, shared publicly, speaks to the discipline, sisterhood, and sense of belonging she found in the Fisk gymnasium, a space where young Black women could pursue elite athletics without having to explain why they belonged there. That sentiment resonates deeply in cities like Atlanta, where HBCUs such as Spelman, Morehouse, and Clark Atlanta have long served as cultural anchors, and where the absence of comparable gymnastics pathways at the collegiate level forces families to seek alternatives—often at significant financial and logistical cost.

What makes this moment particularly poignant is the timing. While the Fisk program’s sunset is slated for 2026, the conversation it’s sparking now mirrors broader trends in youth sports access. Across metro Atlanta, participation in gymnastics has grown steadily over the past decade, particularly among girls aged 6–14, according to regional youth sports coordinators. Yet access remains uneven. Programs in affluent suburbs like Alpharetta or Decatur often come with monthly tuition exceeding $200, while community-based options in neighborhoods like East Point or College Park are limited by funding, facility availability, and coaching pipelines. The closure of an HBCU-affiliated program like Fisk’s doesn’t just remove a team—it removes a symbolic promise that elite gymnastics can be both excellent and accessible within a culturally affirming environment.

Looking deeper, there are second-order effects worth considering. When institutions like Fisk scale back Olympic-adjacent sports, it can influence how younger athletes perceive their long-term prospects. Gymnastics, unlike basketball or football, lacks a robust professional league in the U.S., making collegiate competition one of the highest visible tiers for athletes. For many young gymnasts, especially those from underrepresented backgrounds, the dream isn’t necessarily Olympic gold—it’s earning a scholarship, competing at the collegiate level, and being seen. Programs like Fisk’s offered that pathway without requiring athletes to leave the HBCU ecosystem they trust. Without it, families may experience pushed toward predominantly white institutions (PWIs) where cultural isolation can offset athletic opportunity, or worse, toward abandoning the sport altogether.

This isn’t just about gymnastics mats and balance beams—it’s about what happens when a community loses a vessel for aspiration. In Atlanta, where the BeltLine connects historic neighborhoods and where the legacy of the Civil Rights Movement is woven into the fabric of daily life, the value of spaces that affirm identity while pushing boundaries cannot be overstated. Think about the young girl in Southwest Atlanta who watches Simone Biles floor routines on her phone and then tumbles on the mat at her local YMCA, dreaming of one day wearing a college leotard with an HBCU crest. Programs like Fisk’s weren’t just training athletes—they were reinforcing the idea that she belongs in that space, exactly as she is.

Given my background in analyzing how educational and athletic institutions shape community trajectories, if this trend impacts you in the Atlanta metro area, here are the three types of local professionals you need to connect with—not as a reaction to loss, but as a way to build forward.

First, look for youth sports equity advocates—not just coaches, but individuals or collectives working to expand access to gymnastics and similar sports in underserved neighborhoods. These professionals often partner with parks and recreation departments, faith-based organizations, or public schools to offer sliding-scale or scholarship-based programs. When evaluating them, prioritize those who track longitudinal outcomes: not just who joins a class, but who sticks with it, who advances to competitive levels, and who reports feeling supported in their identity. Ask whether they collaborate with HBCUs or other culturally specific institutions for exposure clinics or mentorship opportunities.

Second, consider athletic pathway counselors—a growing niche that blends sports advising with academic planning. Unlike generic guidance counselors, these specialists understand the unique demands of sports like gymnastics: the peak age windows, the injury prevention protocols, the NCAA eligibility nuances, and the importance of balancing training with academics. In Atlanta, some operate through private practices, while others are embedded in sports academies or wellness centers. The best ones don’t just assist families navigate college recruiting—they help them assess whether a program truly aligns with the athlete’s long-term well-being, not just their trophy case.

Third, seek out facility and program developers who specialize in creating sustainable, community-owned sports spaces. This isn’t about building billion-dollar complexes—it’s about repurposing underused warehouses, retrofitting school gyms after hours, or converting vacant storefronts into safe, accessible training hubs. Look for professionals who emphasize modular design, safety-certified equipment, and partnerships with local booster clubs or alumni networks. In cities like Atlanta, where industrial corridors along Lee Street or Peters Street are seeing adaptive reuse, there’s real potential to create gymnastics spaces that are both affordable and deeply rooted in the neighborhoods they serve.

These aren’t just service categories—they’re nodes in a growing ecosystem aimed at ensuring that when one door closes, others are being opened with intention, equity, and cultural fluency in mind.

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