“the first session”

---

This was my first life coaching session.
I had the consultation in the car.

I want privacy.
If I’m going to spill my heart out, I don’t want walls listening.

The data is patchy.
Her face freezes mid-sentence.
The audio lags.

It’s already hard to say vulnerable things. It’s harder when you’re not even sure the other person heard them.

But we get through it.

I say yes to the package without fully understanding what it is. I keep repeating the same line:

“I feel like an onion. I want to peel away the layers and find the core.”

She says she can help.

I sign the contract.

I don’t have income.
Just savings from my corporate job in London. Money I was supposed to be sensible with. A buffer. A safety net.

It feels reckless. It also feels necessary.

But something in me says: do it.

She’s a white British woman in her forties. Platinum blonde. Not someone I imagine I’ll naturally relate to.

I don’t research alternatives.
I don’t compare.
I don’t rabbit-hole.

I’m too tired for that.

I’m desperate.

I’m tired of living on autopilot.

---

For our official first session, I make sure the WiFi is stable.

She asks,
“What do you want to talk about today?”

And then she waits.

No suggestion.
No direction.
Just a blank canvas.

“I’m not sure,” I say.

“What feelings are coming up for you today?”

She waits again.

There’s a tightness in my chest, I tell her. I’m nervous about this session.

“Say more.”

I glance at my own reflection in the tiny Zoom square. My shoulders are slightly raised. I hadn’t noticed.

Her eyes don’t dart away.
They don’t scan.
They just stay.

No “that makes sense because…”
No turning what I say into something smarter, neater, more productive.
No story about her.

She just listens.

I keep waiting for the pivot.

For us to dig into childhood. Patterns. Trauma.
The usual suspects.
Getting to the core.

I’m ready to spill, suspicious, but ready.

Instead, there’s space.

And in that space, my breathing starts to slow.
Not drowning. Just floating.

I realize how rarely I’m allowed to finish a sentence without someone preparing their response before I’ve even finished breathing.

Third of four children.

Fighting for attention.
Competing with louder voices and bigger characters.
Learning to compress myself.

I develop this habit of mushing words together to save time, to take up less air, to be efficient with my existence.

Silence usually means impatience.
Or judgment.
Or someone deciding I’m too much.

But this silence feels padded.

Soft.

There’s no urgency to make me better.
No rush to convert pain into insight.
No pressure to perform resilience.

She isn’t excavating me.
She’s sitting with me.

And something in my chest loosens, not all at once, just a quiet click.
Like a door that hasn’t been opened in years slowly creaking open.

For the first time, being seen doesn’t feel like a threat.