Why I Care About Coaching

I emerged from college more broken than I went in.  I said that to my housemate last night, in a rare dinner together.  I was trying to explain why coaching feels really important to me.  Why should it matter if kids at an elite college get better at making small sailboats go around buoys faster than other kids at other elite colleges? 

I can't explain that part very well except to tell you that I am certain that it does matter.  Sailing matters, just because it's worth doing.  That's so innate to me and who I am that it's like asking me how to read, or why be interested in people.  I lack the vocabulary to break some things down into smaller parts.  The best stab I can make at explaining sailing is that to be good at it, you have to notice invisible things.  You have to get really good at tuning in to subtleties, to things that haven't happened yet: a wave that is rising and about to change, a windshift that's ahead, a puff that will change all of the forces on your boat.  I really do believe that getting good at noticing makes you happier, and makes you a better person.  It lets you live in the moment.  It lets you use all of your senses, and many of your muscles.  It lets you lose your rational mind and experience flow and response, the bodily sensation of being connected and tuned in to the world around you, water and wind and sky.  I think that's fundamentally worthwhile, as an experience and as a habit.

And I know what a watershed time college is.  I am not sure I have the answer to my question, but I think what college was about for me was understanding hard work.  I saw and learned what it meant to work hard, at school (I didn't do much of that, but I witnessed it, pretty close up), in a sport, and in relationships with people who were different from me.  I didn't always work hard but I learned the difference between working hard and not working hard, and I generally saw a payoff when I worked hard.  But I limped out of college.  I came out convinced I wasn't very smart, and wasn't particularly anything else, either.  Anything I might have once thought I was good at, or distinctive for, I'd met people who were way more accomplished at than me.  I didn't know how to feel okay about myself if I wasn't the best at anything.  I scuttled off to the middle of nowhere to spend a lot of time outside and lick my wounds. 

I love college students.  I like watching them.  They're smart, and they're open-minded, and the world is still new.  They're very funny; I'm always laughing.  They don't have the masks that adults have, so you can see emotions play out on their faces.  And I want, fiercely, to help them feel more sure of themselves than I felt about myself when I was in college.  I am not sure I can do that; I'm not sure anyone could have done that for me.  But maybe I can.  And that, more than anything else, is why being a coach matters to me. 

Comments

[pjm]

This was good to read. Thanks.

[Carol Anne]

Right now, I'm seeing both ends. As a college instructor, I do see much of what you see, among the younger ones, the ones who come fresh out of high school. They have such energy and enthusiasm. And even with the older students that I see in the community college where I teach, the very fact that they have chosen to come back to school to learn shows an optimism that even at their age, they can improve their lives.

I also, as a lifelong non-athlete up until just a few months ago, am learning just how wonderful a good coach is. Such a coach will encourage and be optimistic, but not unrealistic; will acknowldege shortcomings but not allow those to become excuses; will inspire the athlete to be the best he or she can be.

I'd bet you're that kind of coach.

[jenny ellis]

Wow. Me too.

I went off to college with a self-assurance that I haven’t seen since. What I really was though, was naïve. I had come from the extremely protective environment of an all-girls school and I had absolutely no sense that others were judging me. Wrong. They were, but I was blissfully unaware. So I arrived at college as a young girl who was free, and I came out imprisoned by the judging eyes of others. Stops along the way were: devastation, cynicism, anger, recklessness, grief, and ultimately a realization that I had something to say that was worthwhile. I went in as a French major, and found creative writing, which gave me a road back to my self and helped me survive those crazy four years with some dignity. It wasn’t all pain, either. I made some fabulous friends, and I could see that I was not alone in my struggles — everyone was trying to find his or her place. We had our ways of pushing all those insecurities aside, usually involving large quantities of beer. And, hey, that was fun.

My twenties were my most difficult decade, because I didn’t have the comfy college setting and I didn’t have that identity anymore. I needed to find something else — career, relationships, friends. I felt so much like I was in a state of suspension in those years, like I was waiting in the wings for my cue to enter the stage of life. I can view that as wasteful, but I was learning and growing during this time too.

In my thirties, I got married, had kids, and had to retool my identity yet again — not easy. But here at least I had what I had always wanted — husband, children, security. My purpose was uncomplicated: to keep my children safe and raise them with love; help them realize their own potential; be a good partner for my husband. Self be damned! Oh, but not for long. Self rears its head. Self refuses to be stifled.

So that’s what my forties are about, so far anyway. I know that much of the rebuilding was hard work and painful at times. I think the tearing down at college was necessary, although I wish I had been better prepared for it. But it’s true: that which doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. The strength I have developed is good for me, my relationship with my husband, my relationship with friends. And it’s certainly the example I want to be for my daughter, both my children, whose paths will certainly take them through many of the same difficulties. But am I strong enough to deal with that?