How about we learned how to breathe again?
Not the biological, mechanical act, but the conscious, intentional one.
In a world that acknowledges speed, productivity, and visible results, coaching can easily start to resemble another performance arena or a maximum of 7-steps fits-all recipe.
We enter sessions with the intention to support the client and facilitate their growth. Yet somewhere between establishing the alliance and closing the conversation, I sometimes notice a subtle pressure appearing. A feeling that the session should produce something significant — a breakthrough, a powerful insight, a moment that justifies the time, the role, and the fee. Without realizing it, the focus can shift from simply accompanying the client’s process to trying to deliver something impactful.
And so we move…
We reach for the next powerful question. We search for the elegant reframe. We mentally scan our toolbox. We try to squeeze insight out of the hour — for the client, yes, but also for ourselves.
In Zen calligraphy, the Ensō — the hand-drawn circle — is painted in an uninterrupted and uncorrected brushstroke, throughout a single exhale. It symbolizes simplicity, wholeness, but also imperfection. Sometimes the circle is closed. Sometimes it is intentionally open, leaving a gap. That opening is not a mistake, but the point of this symbol.
… but what if we paused?
Imagine there is a space between the inhale and the exhale. A small, fertile interval. Not empty — but alive. A space where nothing is being produced, yet everything is possible. A space where we resist the reflex to intervene, interpret or improve.
The open Ensō acknowledges that life is incomplete, unfolding, never fully contained. The blank space inside the circle is not emptiness in the Western sense of lack. It is spaciousness. Potential. The field where things arise.
In coaching, we often try to close the circle – in search of clarity, resolution or a loud insight at the end of the hour. An articulated takeaway. A visible shift.
But perhaps the deeper work happens in the unclosed part of the circle — in the space we do not fill.
Coaching is relational presence. Yet many of us were trained in environments that reward productivity and mastery. Even as we internalize competencies and ethics, we may still carry an unspoken belief: a good coach produces visible shifts. A good coach asks the perfect question. A good coach leads to breakthroughs.
- But what if coaching is less about producing and more about allowing?
- When I notice the pressure to generate results, I find it useful to pause and ask: pressed by whom?
- Is it perfectionism?
- Search for validation?
- A fear that silence will expose my inadequacy?
- A lack of trust in the process — or in the client?
- Or is it truly about the expectations of the person sitting in front of me?
The Ensō teaches that imperfection is not a flaw to be corrected. It is a snapshot of reality. The brushstrokes may be uneven and the circle may be wobbly. The gap remains visible.
Coaching conversations are similar. They are rarely linear. Clients circle around themes. They pause. They return to something previously mentioned. Some threads remain unfinished.
And there it is – the subtle, familiar moment when the client finishes speaking, silence lingers and we feel the urge to jump in. To rescue the silence. To elevate the conversation. To demonstrate competence.
That moment is the space between breaths.
If we stay there — just a few seconds longer than comfortable — something interesting can happen. The client often continues. A deeper layer emerges. Not because we engineered it, but because we allowed space for it.
Resisting the urge to find the “perfect” question can feel counterintuitive. Coaching training emphasizes powerful inquiry – and rightly so – powerful questions matter. But they lose their power when driven by rushed anxiety.
Sometimes the more important question is the one we ask ourselves:
Am I asking to support the client’s exploration, or to confirm my value as a coach?
This is not a moral judgment, but an honest reflection. Many of us entered coaching after careers where competence and contribution were central to our identity. We were high performers in other domains. We are used to adding value. Silence can feel like inactivity. ”Slowness” can feel like underperformance.
Coaching – or rather the desirable outcome of it – works in the opposite direction: instead of adding more, we remove something – expectations, urgency, pressure.
- The space between breaths is where trust begins to grow.
- Trust that the client’s system already carries the information within.
- Trust that insight does not always need to be forced into existence.
- Trust that presence is not passive.
In this space, the role of the coach changes – from performer to witness. Not trying to push an outcome, but to become a companion in inquiry.
We regulate the pace not by accelerating it, but by stabilizing it.
When we slow down internally, clients often follow. Nervous systems co-regulate and safety becomes a catalyst for deepening the conversation.
Consciously allowing space does not mean abandoning structure or intention. It simply means holding them lightly. It means accepting that not every session will end with a polished insight or a perfectly articulated conclusion.
The irony is that when we release our grip on “the breakthrough,” breakthroughs often occur. Not because we delivered the perfect line, but because we trusted the process enough to let it unfold. Not because we delivered the perfect intervention, but because we trusted the incompleteness of the moment.
Perhaps our role as coaches is not to complete the circle for our clients.
Perhaps it is to hold the brush lightly.
So, the invitation might be this: before your next question, breathe.
Notice the impulse to improve, fix or close the gap. Notice the subtle performance anxiety. Notice the story that says the session must prove something.
And then remain — one heartbeat longer — in that snapshot space between inhale and exhale.
Coaching does not need to be squeezed for results. It needs room.
The purpose of the session is not to demonstrate mastery, but to support awareness – which sometimes appears in words and sometimes – in silence.
The blank space is not empty.
It is where self-mastery begins.
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