I’ve been a life coach for twelve years, which is long enough to develop two things: a carefully neutral smile and a deep suspicion of anyone who says “I’m just really excited to grow.”
So when Clive walked out of our first session glowing with gratitude – thanking me, shaking my hand twice, and calling the session “life-altering” despite the fact we’d mostly discussed his calendar – I was, frankly, unsettled.
People don’t do that. They nod. They say “this was helpful.” Occasionally they cry into a houseplant. But gratitude with eye contact? Sustained eye contact? No.
Still, I wrote it down in my notes: Client displays enthusiasm. Monitor closely.
A week later, Clive arrived early for our second session. This, too, was suspicious. He sat upright, smiling, with something clutched in his hands – wrapped, I noted, in aggressively shiny paper.
“I got you something,” he said.
Now, there are rules in my profession. Clear boundaries. No dual relationships. No accepting extravagant gifts. There is, unfortunately, nothing in the official guidelines about… whatever this was.
“Oh,” I said, deploying Neutral Smile #3 (pleasant but discouraging). “That’s very kind, but you really don’t…”
“I insist,” he said, with the calm intensity of a man who has rehearsed this moment in the mirror.
He extended the package toward me. It was… soft.
This raised immediate questions.
“I’d actually prefer,” he added, leaning forward slightly, “if you opened it now.”
Of course you would, Clive.
I considered my options. Refuse, and risk derailing whatever fragile therapeutic alliance we’d built over 50 minutes of discussing his email habits. Accept, and… well, accept.
I chose the path of least paperwork.
“Alright,” I said, taking the gift.
It was, unmistakably, a cushion.
At first, I felt relief. Cushions are safe. Neutral. Inoffensive. The Switzerland of soft furnishings.
Then I turned it over.
And met Clive’s face.
Not physically. That would have been easier. No – printed, in high resolution, across the entire front of the cushion, was a photograph of Clive. Smiling. Beaming, even. Beside him, a woman I assumed to be his wife, also smiling with the quiet confidence of someone unaware she would soon be immortalized on upholstery.
They were… large. Life-sized, perhaps. Larger, even. Their faces occupied the entire cushion like benevolent, fabric-based deities.
I blinked.
There are moments in life coaching when you must remain composed. When a client reveals something vulnerable. When emotions run high. When someone shows you a decorative pillow featuring their own marriage.
This was one of those moments.
“Oh,” I said.
Neutral Smile #7. The emergency one.
“It’s us,” Clive said, helpfully.
“Yes,” I replied. “Yes, I can see that.”
“They said the print quality would be good, but I didn’t expect it to be this good,” he added, clearly delighted. “You can even see Karen’s necklace.”
Karen, I assumed, was the wife. Karen’s necklace was, indeed, visible. Painfully visible. It appeared to be judging me.
I held the cushion at arm’s length, as though it might reveal additional people if I looked too closely.
“This is… very personal,” I managed.
“Exactly!” Clive said. “I wanted you to have something meaningful. You’ve already helped me so much.”
We had discussed him setting a bedtime.
I glanced at the cushion again. Clive and Karen continued smiling, frozen in eternal, polyester-based optimism.
Clive, meanwhile, had gone very still. He leaned forward slightly in his chair, hands clasped together as if in prayer, eyes wide and unblinking. He watched my face with the intensity of a man awaiting exam results, or possibly the outcome of minor surgery. There was hope there. Expectation. A fragile, terrifying optimism that suggested my response might fundamentally alter the trajectory of his week – if not his life. I became acutely aware that I was holding not just a cushion, but Clive’s emotional well-being, wrapped in satin-finish fabric.
There was a silence. A long one.
And then, as if this were the most natural question in the world, Clive leaned forward just a fraction more and asked:
“So… do you like it?”
Another silence.
In my head, several answers formed:
- I am professionally obligated to pretend I do.
- I will never emotionally recover from this.
- Is this reversible?
What I said, eventually, was:
“It’s… unforgettable.”
Clive beamed.
Karen’s necklace glinted approvingly.
And I made a mental note to add a new policy to my practice:
No cushions.
Stories to Read... 