By the third session, I had begun to suspect that Clive was taking the process seriously.
Too seriously.
There are, broadly speaking, two types of clients: those who resist change, and those who embrace it with such enthusiasm that change itself becomes the problem.
Clive, I was beginning to realise, belonged firmly in the second category.
“Things have been going really well,” he said, sitting upright, hands resting neatly on his knees. “I’ve been implementing everything we discussed.”
“That’s good to hear,” I replied, making a note: Client reports progress. Verify.
“I’ve also been reflecting,” he added.
Of course you have.
“In what way?” I asked.
“On your guidance,” he said. “Your frameworks. The way you phrase things.”
I nodded, cautiously. This was still, technically, normal.
“And I wanted to say,” he continued, “it’s been incredibly helpful. For both of us.”
Both.
“Yes,” I said. “You mentioned Karen found the dinner… useful.”
“Very useful,” Clive said. “She’s really taken things on board.”
I resisted the urge to ask what, specifically, had been taken on board.
Instead, I smiled. Neutral Smile #4: encouraging, but not inviting elaboration.
We moved through the session. Goals. Habits. A brief discussion about morning routines that became unexpectedly philosophical. At one point, Clive used the phrase “intentional momentum,” which I am fairly certain I had said once, in passing, and immediately regretted.
The session ended on time.
This, in itself, felt like a victory.
That evening, I returned home, opened my laptop, and was greeted by a new email.
From Karen.
I paused.
There are moments in this profession where instinct suggests a course of action that is not, strictly speaking, outlined in any training manual.
My instinct, in that moment, was to close the laptop and take up a different career.
Instead, I clicked.
The subject line read:
Thank You
Promising.
The email began:
Dear Coach,
Not ideal, but acceptable.
I hope you don’t mind me reaching out. Clive has told me so much about your sessions, and after meeting you, I felt it was important to express my gratitude directly.
I exhaled, slowly.
The impact you’ve had on Clive has been remarkable. He is more focused, more present, and, if I may say, more aligned.
Aligned.
We both feel very fortunate to have you guiding him (and, in many ways, us).
Us.
I have been reflecting deeply on your words since dinner. The idea that “structure creates freedom” has stayed with me. I repeated it to myself the next morning. And again while making tea. It has a calming effect.
I did not remember saying this.
I scrolled.
The email continued.
And continued.
At paragraph four, she referenced my “measured tone.”
At paragraph six, she described the way I had held my glass of water as “deliberate, almost instructional.”
At paragraph nine, she thanked me for “creating a space where growth feels not only possible, but inevitable.”
By paragraph twelve, I had lost all sense of time.
I reached the end.
Thank you again for everything you do.
We are both listening very carefully.
Warm regards,
Karen
There was no signature image.
This felt significant.
I sat back.
There are guidelines, in my profession, regarding communication. Clear, concise, appropriate. Nowhere, to my knowledge, is there advice on responding to a twelve-paragraph email analysing your water consumption technique.
I began to type a reply.
Dear Karen,
Thank you for your kind message—
I stopped.
Deleted it.
Tried again.
Dear Karen,
I appreciate you taking the time—
No.
Too encouraging.
I deleted that as well.
I considered not replying at all.
This felt, briefly, like the correct decision.
Then I imagined the follow-up.
I replied.
Dear Karen,
Thank you for your message. I’m glad to hear Clive is finding the sessions helpful.
Best regards,
—
I removed my name. Re-added it. Removed it again. Re-added it.
I sent the email.
It was, I felt, appropriately neutral. Brief. Contained. A closed door, politely but firmly shut.
Three minutes later, my inbox refreshed.
A new email.
From Karen.
I stared at it.
I did not open it.
Not immediately.
Instead, I stood up, walked to the kitchen, and opened my fridge.
The lemon was still there.
The jar of something-that-was-once-pesto remained undisturbed.
The carrot—now decisively abstract in shape—rested where I had left it.
There was something reassuring about this. A consistency. A boundary, even.
I returned to my laptop.
The email waited.
Unread.
Present.
I hovered over it, aware—acutely—that whatever was inside would move things forward. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But enough.
Enough to matter.
I closed the laptop.
There are, I decided, limits.
Even now.
Even here.
I made a note for my practice:
No cushions.
No dinners.
I paused.
Then added:
No emails.
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