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Part 1
Setting out
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Chapter 1
Commitment
A decision to set out on a coaching journey, connecting, learning and growing
Flowing
I had decided to learn a new skill. I cannot say that I was particularly diligent in sourcing the trainer or the content. It was rather a spur of the moment thing on the recommendation of a well-respected friend. A course spread over six months, taking in several long weekends. Practising in between. A programme shared with 120 other delegates. I remember thinking, âOh crikey! Thatâs a lot of peopleâ and concluding that âthe trainers must know what theyâre doingâ.
I rose early, sneaking about in the dark, walking on tiptoe not wishing to disturb my two young boys. I was curious, anxious, excited and cold. The outfit was a bit of a challenge. What should I choose so that I was putting my best foot forward and most likely to win friends and influence people? I believe it was jeans, shirt, blazer and ankle boots. My make-up was applied as diligently as always. After all, my Mum always remonstrated: âYouâre not going out without your lipstick on, youâre far too pale.â
I came from a mining village on the Nottinghamshire/Derbyshire border. My parents aspired to home ownership by working hard and being determined to achieve their dream. Indeed, my Mum went back to work when I was two years old, which was unheard of in her family of ten siblings, eight of whom were girls. Hard work paid off and my parents bought their brand-new house when I was eight years old. I had to leave the village school while the house was being built. I was bereft every morning, after a long and tedious car journey, to be walking through the gates of my fine new junior school.
The days began with much sobbing in the miserable toilets. I knew no one. My class teacher, for some reason, despised me from the word go. It was a lonely first year, filled with the all-pervasive smell of hops from the adjacent brewery. In my world this fragrance is forever associated with the hollow ache of being excluded. The shame of not knowing how to spell ârazorâ burns in me still. The despair and apparent ignorance of getting low marks for mental arithmetic tests has left its mark. I was the only one who didnât have a âslipper bagâ for my plimsolls and gymslip. I knew what it was to start from scratch, a year behind the rest of the class; they all knew their place and had a sense of belonging. At least I thought they did.
I cannot remember pondering on this early history as I travelled down to London on the train. I was sure that the course would be good and I would learn a lot. I was determined to make the most of it.
I smiled and grinned and nodded and enquired, mirroring with polite manners whoever crossed my path. I hated the vacuum flask that refused to pour and was determined to embarrass me. One hundred and twenty is an awful lot of people. The music swelled and blared out from the tinny speakers, âthiiiings can only get better!!!!â What a call to adventure!
In the coming days I was enthralled by the host and tutor, I sat mesmerised by his sorcery. He was irreverent and candid. He expertly demonstrated the processes and skills we aspired to learn, displaying mastery, subtlety and humour. He mocked our âperformance anxietyâ and pandered to our need for a big thick manual. He encouraged us to go beyond where we dared imagine in developing a deeper relationship with ourselves. He was courageous and kind, unafraid to call out the pattern or resistance.
His compassion unlocked and transformed the lives of many of us. There were tears, hugs, fear and great joy.
Yes, there was practice, practice, practice. I was naive. My sheltered girlsâ grammar school education had stood me in good stead until now. The other delegates were from all walks of life, all backgrounds, ages, nationalities, experience, religions, cultures and sexualities. It was stimulating, surprising and frightening. We were sharing our private and intimate stories in triads of learning. Exposing our vulnerabilities. Occasionally annoying the hell out of each other, with prejudices prominent, yet we ploughed on. It was the most thrilling and appalling experience. I shall treasure it forever. We said goodbye with love and humility, noticing everyone. A community had been created and it had thrived and flourished. I was part of that.
What I wished they had told me:
That people could be surprising and have such strange ideas and assumptions
What I wish I had asked:
How am I ever going to coach someone who is so very different from me?
Falling
I was an experienced coach. I must have been, I had been working as one for twelve years and seemed to be highly respected. I certainly had plenty of coaching assignments. Curious about how I might take in some professional development I looked for an interesting workshop. Spurred on by a recommendation from a couple of friends and fellow coaches I applied for a place on a one-day activity held in Hampton Court Palace. All was looking good; there were about thirty delegates, some of whom I already knew well or at least by sight. I was feeling confident and relaxed, anticipating the dayâs learning. Hugging and chatting, nodding and smiling, we settled into a circle and the day began.
The course was exploring how transactional analysis theory1 (TA) and specifically the TA drivers2 might result in the behaviours of the coach and client becoming problematic. This was a new area of study for me and I was listening carefully to understand the theory and to apply its principles in my work, particularly to increase my self-awareness. A lack of rapport in the client relationship can be a deal breaker; it doesnât lead to trust and can result in the client disappearing from the partnership.
It was time to have a go and practise with the framework. We were set up in a triad, three of us taking it in turns to be coach, to be client and to observe. I had noticed an attractive, alert-looking woman, who was articulate in the group. Iâd decided she was my first choice to work with. A close friend of mine offered to join us. We shuffled our chairs, delaying the moment to begin.
I understand now that it is important to bring âreal stuffâ to a coaching intervention, even if it is a learning or practice situation. Back then I was ignorant. The exercise had been set up for the client to choose a driver behaviour and to role play the consequences of this behaviour during the coaching. The coach was to deploy their best efforts to move the client forward.
Of course, it is no surprise to me now, as an experienced coach supervisor, that oneâs client can bring what is your worst nightmare, or certainly the very issue that currently plagues you in real life. Blissfully unaware and yet earnest in my desire to be a âgood coachâ, I opened with âand what are you bringing to the coaching conversation today?â.
My articulate client began her role play: âWell, Iâve got this friend and sheâs really depressed and she keeps ringing me and I donât want to be mean but itâs dragging me down. It doesnât matter what I say to her, she keeps going over old ground. Itâs all because of her not being able to make up her mind about the relationship with her boyfriend. She just keeps going around in circles. Iâm trying to be a good friend but she is overwhelming me and Iâm getting worn out with it all.â
I acknowledged how difficult this must be for her and invited her to set out her goal. âWell I donât know, but what I do know is I canât take it anymore. Iâm so drained, itâs exhausting. When I try to suggest something, she gets very irritable and Iâm feeling so frustrated.â
âWhat have you tried?â, I asked.
âIâve tried everything and nothing works. Iâm ready to give up with her and yet she is my friend and . . . .â
The conversation ploughed on relentlessly and no matter how I tried to reframe or elicit a future outcome the client was having none of it. Thatâs the trouble with role plays; the client doesnât get a live response in their body or mind to the interventions offered. That was no excuse, however.
I had failed as a coach. Overwhelmed with doubt, I knew it had not gone well. There was the faintest vibration in the centre of my body. I had tried my best but the articulate woman had not budged. I was concerned that my friend had witnessed the session and that I certainly wasnât as good as my ego had led me to believe. The vibration then pulsed and my heart started pounding, my face was flushed and I was doubting my skill, and even my right to be there. The feedback was lost on me, I was panicking. I didnât want to be judged but I heard the verdict.
As we returned to the larger circle we were invited to offer our experiences of the exercise. Third to speak was my articulate woman. âSHE made me feel dreadful, I was getting so depressed talking to her. I was only role playing but by the time weâd finished I felt awful. She made me feel worse and it didnât work for me at all.â She may as well have taken out a knife and stabbed me in the chest, piercing my heart and draining the life from me.
What I wish they had told me:
That sometimes people have a need to diminish others even when they profess to be inclusive and generous.
What I wish I had asked:
What are the rules around here?
Flowing
For as long as I can remember, I have held a self-perception that I am a bit academically stupid. I donât think I am stupid in other things, in fact I think I am rather quick in most other things. I learn words to songs and keep fit routines quickly, I have a great memory for trivia and can remember things that others find incredible â one of my party tricks at college was to recall what outfits the class were wearing the week before. I can turn my hand to most tasks and learn how to do them quickly and improve them too. This latter point was particularly helpful when it came to relating to the people I worked with in factories â as a manager, your credibility was huge if you could do what they did on the production line and do it better.
It took me years to recognise that I am not a conventional learner. I cannot take information in when it is read to me; I go completely deaf. I also donât take in facts or data that have no connection, meaning or immediate utility. School work was painful and revision even more so.
My way of learning meant that my school qualifications were poor and I was left with a nagging feeling that I was capable of more but, as I hadnât delivered it, I must be academically stupid. This then informed my approach to learning and I only really committed to practical-based training and learning, which involved role plays, activities and rehearsals, because I was good at that stuff.
I am married to a wonderful man who went to one of the best private âboysâ schoolsâ in the UK (and possibly the world), spent time at Sandhurst and was an Oxford scholar â not bad for a stupid girl from a wee town in Scotland. He was, and still is, incredulous at my intellectual self-perception and often challenges, with irrefutable data, to demonstrate how warped and wrong my view is.
This finally played out when I was asked to enrol in a Professional Masters in Coaching. I had landed a wonderful role at a global consumer goods company as the Global Head of Coaching and knew that, as this profession was in its early stages of development, I ought to try to learn more about it. What I was not sure about was how best to learn about it. At the time, there were not as many coaching courses available as there are now and they did not have the rigour of professional body accreditation. Neurolinguistic programming (NLP)3 was everywhere but I knew that learning a technique or approach was not what I needed to do this job well. Having gone on a taster session, I met a well-respected coach who contributed significantly to the coaching community. He suggested I join the second Professional Master cohort. He saw my spark and potential and encouraged me to consider doing the course. It was perfect for me. A balance of practice and theory with some research thrown in â it would challenge me, stretch me and have immediate application to my role.
I went into such a flap. I am stupid, I could not possibly complete a Masterâs degree, especially not while working and being a mother to two small children. My husband ...
