Winston Churchgrill 

I adjusted my posture into what I call Professional Compassion Mode™ just as my 11:00 a.m. client entered the room carrying the emotional energy of a man recently betrayed by both history and stationery.

He sat down slowly.

Very slowly.

“I’m Winston Churchgrill,” he said.

I nodded calmly, though internally my soul attempted to resign.

“Welcome, Winston,” I said. “What brings you here today?”

He stared at the carpet as though searching for alternate parents beneath it.

“My life,” he said, “was sabotaged at birth.”

A powerful opening. Rarely do clients arrive already summarising their trauma.

“They named me Winston,” he continued. “Do you understand what that means in this country?”

I offered a neutral coaching expression—the face of someone emotionally available yet legally non-committal.

“I cannot introduce myself without someone narrowing their eyes,” he said. “People expect courage. Strategy. Speeches during national crisis.”

He wiped his forehead.

The sweating had begun early.

“I ordered a flat white yesterday,” he said. “The barista said, ‘We shall fight them on the beaches,’ and upgraded me to oat milk out of respect.”

“That sounds difficult,” I said gently.

“My manager keeps asking for morale speeches,” Winston continued. “I clean algae from tropical fish tanks. Nobody needs wartime rhetoric near a clownfish.”

He shifted in his chair. A visible sheen now covered his brow.

“But Winston,” I asked softly, “is the first name the main source of distress?”

He inhaled sharply.

“No,” he whispered. “It’s Churchgrill.”

He loosened his collar.

“I want you to really think about this,” he said, leaning forward. “A grill. At a church.”

A bead of sweat rolled down his temple.

“Have you ever attended Sunday service and smelled charcoal?” he demanded. “Has a priest ever said, ‘Let us pray… and also rotate the sausages’?”

I hesitated. “Not to my knowledge.”

“Exactly!” he cried. “There are church bells, church pews, church halls—but grills? Never! My surname implies centuries of clergy hosting barbecues!”

His breathing quickened.

“I researched my ancestry,” he continued. “Nothing. No sacred cookouts. No medieval brisket ministry. Just confusion.”

Sweat now formed with strategic ambition.

“People ask if my family catered the Reformation,” he said. “Someone asked whether Lent is just slow-roasting season.”

I noted acute nominative distress.

“So how does this make you feel?” I asked.

He stared at his trembling hands.

“I don’t know who I am,” he said. “Am I a statesman? Am I catering staff? Am I ecclesiastical cookware?”

At this point perspiration achieved full participation.

“I wake up at night imagining bishops arguing over propane,” he whispered. “Sometimes I dream of hymns accompanied by sizzling.”

Powerful vulnerability.

I leaned forward.

“Winston,” I said, “names do not define destiny.”

He blinked through sweat.

“You are not bound by historical expectation or hypothetical priest barbecues.”

He sat silently, absorbing this revelation while dabbing his forehead with what appeared to be an emergency handkerchief labelled W.C.

“So what should I do?” he asked.

“Reframe the narrative,” I said.

The following week he returned transformed.

Radiant. Confident. Only mildly damp.

“It worked,” he announced.

“That’s wonderful.”

“Yes,” he said proudly. “I told everyone to call me Win.”

I smiled.

He hesitated.

“…Unfortunately,” he said, “they now call me Win the Grill.”

I closed my notebook.

Some journeys take longer than others.