Every several years, coaches who are credentialed through the International Coaching Federation are required to complete an ethics training. This includes, as you would imagine, a review of ethical standards and what’s new or changing in the field. In the training I took recently, the phrase that stood out to me was “the power differential of zero.”
This is the foundation (a foundation? the foundation?) of the coaching relationship, that both people are equal in their standing. It’s one element that distinguishes coaching from mentorship (one person is positioned as more experienced), or advising (other people are subject-matter experts.) This is the concept that hooked me from the start, though I couldn’t identify it at the time. Instead I only knew I wanted, intuitively, more of whatever this thing was.
Before I go on, I want to acknowledge the history and weight of the word “power” because I’ve seen people wince, physically recoil, when I’ve used it in a coaching context. People have feelings, and experiences, and wounds, very deep wounds, from the myriad ways power has been manipulated and abused. I am sensitive to this. At the same time, we can’t understand something if we’re not willing to talk about it.
Over the past few months that I’ve been publishing Cento, it’s been cool to see the number of coaches who are deconstructing the prevailing theory that coaching, as a practice, is agnostic of identity, meaning anyone can coach anyone. Coaching is universal in many ways—it’s wonderful for helping people define a sense of purpose in life, or exploring what’s possible, or taking on new challenges. But emerging voices are also asking us to consider that just as mirrors can reflect subtle or obvious distortions, an unexamined relationship to power can show up as a coach-as-mirror’s unevenness or warp. How do we establish equal footing between two people, for example, when we are drowning in power imbalances as a society? We all inhabit more or less power in the wider world, so what happens when this presents in a coaching relationship—whether because of gender, or race, or age, or class, etc.—because it will if we are committed to rigorous work. In my experience, this is especially true as it relates to whiteness and privilege. This is my learning curve, too.
Thinking of our blind spots reminds me of the journalist’s challenge in ascertaining a (small “t”) truth through reasoned, unbiased inquiry. And yet, every time a journalist frames an interview question, or commits words to paper, or writes a headline, they reveal a perspective, a bias, because this is inevitable. We are human and constrained by deadlines and the incomplete nature of language itself. The best journalists take this seriously. To this day, I am grateful for my former newsroom colleagues who taught me to strive for objectivity, interrogate my assumptions, and always be humbled by shortcomings. (If you’re reading this, friends, thank you for the wisdom and lessons. I’ve never forgotten.)
All of this was on my mind when, a few weeks ago, I attended several girls soccer matches with a college friend. Some of the best players from throughout the U.S. were gathered in Vegas for a tournament, and my friend’s 12-year-old daughter plays for the team from Oregon, so I hung out with her family, and the rest of the soccer moms, and a few soccer dads, on the artificial turf in the sun. It was good soccer, too. You could practically see the girls improving their game intelligence in real time, developing more control of the ball with every pass or shot at the goal, and holding their personal power lightly. I was in awe.
Then, after one particular match, I also watched how the energy—which had been so focused on the field—reverted back to the messiness and chaos of real life. There were tears after the loss. There were grass stains and limps, hugs and high fives, and the spectator ballet of packing up the lawn chairs and blankets. There was a ref who took the brunt of the blame. There was a pep talk from the coach. There were sparkly, loud, consoling soccer moms. There was Olive Garden.
People talk about the value of sports to learn teamwork and leadership, but then somehow we’ve come to believe that once you’re grown, you’re done with the learning part. Now you know. Now translate those skills to real life. In my experience, this is not how it works. Sports can teach us a mindset, but footwork and tackling aren’t generally useful in navigating relationships and life.
In a coaching context, the differential of zero is the North Star, the goal that both people in the relationship work toward by noticing where, or how, or when they cede or take control, then becoming more deft at speaking to and negotiating the dynamics that show up. It’s learning how to make little course corrections along the way like co-pilots.
In my own coaching practice, “When do you give away your power? To whom?” has been a long-standing question embedded in my initial discovery questionnaire, but now I’m realizing it was aspirational only: I didn’t have the ability to explore anyone’s answers with much depth, even as I recognized the question’s value. Earlier I mentioned that someone cringed when I used the word “power” in a coaching context—this was one instance in particular, and instead of mining the client’s visceral reaction with curiosity, I shied away from the topic. Their response triggered my own fear and signaled danger: Had I crossed a line? Are we not allowed to speak about power? Is that a taboo word? The insecurity I felt then is exactly why I want to lean in today. It’s why I’m committed to featuring longer essays and interviews, too. The term “holding space” has such cringy associations, but in essence that is what long-form writing does—it holds space for complex ideas to develop.
These days, most of us are more likely to attend a dinner party than sprint down a soccer field, but I think this is a metaphor that can also work. Pretend we are all seated at a table, napkins in our laps, cutlery and crystal and the good china in front of us. A chef begins serving the meal, family style. The main course is a conversation about life. The side dishes are identity and power. Someone raises a glass and volunteers a toast, then everyone begins to eat. Oh, I forgot to mention this—the table is round.