Why I Became a Coach

I didn’t become a coach because I have it all together.

Quite the opposite.

If you read my bio, the path from social worker to coach doesn’t look like a dramatic shift. I could say I let my license go because I was caring for three children with special needs. I could say I’m stepping back into work now that my boys are adults.

But that’s not really it.

I became a coach because I am still learning.

When we first realized our children were struggling, the road to diagnosis was long and exhausting. It took four years for our oldest to receive a diagnosis — even though I asked, over and over, “Could it be dyslexia? It runs in my family.” Navigating that uncertainty was hard.

Choosing to homeschool was hard. It meant sacrifice — for me and for my boys. It meant trusting a different rhythm of learning. It meant letting go of what I thought education was supposed to look like.

Parenting a child who is now an adult with refractory epilepsy is still hard.

Supporting a son with nonverbal learning disorder — high functioning, capable, bright — is hard in quieter ways. Sometimes I forget that he interprets language literally. I’ll say something casually, and ten minutes later I’ll realize he received it in a way I never intended. And once again, I’m learning.

I am still learning every day.

S.L.O.W.E.R. didn’t come from a place of mastery. It came from my own struggle to regulate my nervous system. It came from sleepless nights, from fear, from the realization that if I didn’t learn how to slow my body down, I was going to burn out.

Coaching, for me, is not about being the expert in the room.

It is about walking alongside.

It is about holding space while someone finds the answers that already live within them.

I can hold that space not because I have figured life out — but because I haven’t. Because I know what it feels like to be in process. To be unsure. To be tired. To try again anyway.

I am not an expert.

I am a practitioner.

I am still practicing.

That’s exactly why I became a coach.