Can I coach with a broken heart?
It’s 3:30 pm on Saturday, January 24 and I am standing on an overpass sidewalk with six other humans. Each of us holds a sign against the chainlink fence, as if our signs are shouting out our feelings and longings: ICE OUT of MN! We love our immigrant neighbors! Say their names!
It’s not even seven hours since Alex Pretti was shot by federal agents 10 minutes from where I live. In a city of this size, most of us are no more than 20 minutes from where Alex was murdered. The same goes for our proximity to where Renee Good was murdered two weeks prior and where George Floyd was murdered in 2020. And the list of those who’ve died at the hands of state violence – just here in MN not to mention across the country – is much longer than this list of three. So much senseless death and lasting pain. It's all so close to home.
Our community is woven together in grief, rage, and love.
On this Saturday, on numerous streets throughout the city, there are people standing in the cold holding protest signs. On some sidewalks there are five or more people, but often there is only one person or just a pair.
When I see someone standing alone with a sign I feel my heart race, so moved by their bravery and their willingness to show up like this. There’s a lump in my throat as I drive by corner after corner of raging, grieving humans. I know they are out here because, like me, they feel they have to do something with this heartbreak. Standing on a sidewalk in the freezing cold with a sign that screams and cries is something.
I came across the overpass protesters while driving home from an errand. (The absurdity of an errand on a day like this.) I saw five shivering bodies – neighbors, comrades – standing stoically with their signs and I turned to my sweetie and said, “I’m coming back to join them.”
So now I’m standing with my sweetie and five “strangers” above the highway pressing our signs against the fence as cars zip by below us. Some cars beep in solidarity and others rev their engines or flip us off. There are more beeps than middle fingers. There is more solidarity, I feel it.
On my sign I wrote in big block letters “Leave our neighbors alone!!” and decorated the back with Olly Costello and Lettie Jane Rennekamp old calendar pages because including beautiful, meaningful art felt important to me. The page from Lettie Jane’s calendar is of a rose unfurling; Olly’s calendar page says: “Crisis expands our imaginations around what is possible.”
"May it be so" I whisper under my breath, tears literally freezing as they fall down my cheeks (it’s under zero degrees and extremely cold). I push my sign harder against the fence. Car horns wail. The sun sets slowly at our backs, providing a little warmth. I am so heartbroken.
Later that evening (thawing out at home), I receive a text from my coach offering to hold space for me. They say this is a human-to-human offer. They say they’re here for me and they want to make sure I have what I need.
Crying on the phone with them the next day, I ask how can I be with this much anger and grief? How can I move through my days let alone my coaching sessions? How can I coach and hold space with a broken heart? I ask them: Can I do with my clients what you are doing for me right now?
Together we remember that I am allowed to be human in my work.
I remember that my job as a coach is not to be the wise or perfect one. I have grown so many tools as a coach including intuition, listening, curiosity, and the ability to deepen and move things forward. I can trust myself to show up okay, even now.
The four cornerstones of Co-Active coaching could actually support me through this: dance in this moment, focus on the whole person, evoke transformation, people are naturally creative, resourceful and whole.
As I extend these beliefs to the humans I work with I can also remember that I am included in the cornerstones. I am whole. I am living (and dancing) through this moment. I am open to transformation of self and community. I believe I have the creativity, resourcefulness and wholeness to be in this moment and whatever comes next. And from this trusting place I can pour into my clients, even now, even while heartbroken.
I think my question of can I coach with a broken heart is transforming into: Can I also be in the world – this heartbreaking world – as a coach?
I see myself dancing in this moment while I buy groceries for a family that is sheltering in place, scared to leave home or go to work because of the risk of abduction.
I see myself centering curiosity instead of defensiveness when someone challenges my “I love my immigrant neighbors” yard sign as too political. (I also feel curious about my ability to truly see everyone as naturally creative, resourceful and whole. I am motivated to keep growing my capacity here, to see if doing so makes me more welcoming and more skillful at repair after rupture.)
I invite my out-of-state friends and family (and many locals) to join me in on-the-ground work by sending funds that I’ll redistribute to local mutual aid projects. Together we deepen and forward our commitment to collective care.
I see my creativity as I create a quilt block articulating how I am feeling in this moment. In the center of my block I stitch the words We belong to each other. Through creativity, I feel more willing to feed my hungry imagination and reach towards my longings.
I witness how whole I am – and we are – as I stand at the corner with my neighbors on Monday evenings, continuing to protest, continuing to say we can’t normalize this!
I am listening to where I am called. I participate in the general strike and I march (even in -20 degree temps). I walk to my neighborhood park at 7:00 pm the day Alex is murdered to mourn with my neighbors. (On this day neighbors throughout the city left their homes at that time to stand together in frigid temps at street corners or parks, holding candles to express our deep collective grief.)
I watch my intuition guide me to print and distribute posters to my neighbors with art offered generously by @chiara.acu – art that expresses exactly what feels most important: Let this heartbreak move you away from isolation and toward each other.
All of these actions feel like a drop in the ocean. I find myself whispering a drop in the ocean, a drop in the ocean as I move through my days called to truth-tell and create connections and nourish and mend and express care...and coach. I’m a drop in the ocean but I need to give myself to these tides.
I am learning: I can coach with a broken heart and I can intentionally bring my training as a coach to this heartbreaking moment.
I have spent my whole life a bit afraid of my enormous, untamed anger aimed at the injustices, violence, and ache of this world. Anger comes easily and quickly, anger comes first.
But I’m a coach (!) and I move with possibility and curiosity and a wild, determined belief that change is feasible on all scales – individual to collective – and so I wonder: What if my rage is a mask for something else? What if all of this anger is coming from a different source?
And now I’m seeing – so clearly – that behind my rage is my big heart. (Maybe you’ve known this and saw it in me and it’s why you hired me as your coach. Maybe you are learning with me. Maybe something else entirely. Thanks for being here, together.)
My anger felt like it needed to protect my sensitive, yearning heart. Now I can see I have always been moving from love. My heart breaks because of love. My grief swells because of love. My rage howls because of love. And my rage leads me into my love.
What if I can accept this love? What if I can put down the fight and admit (to myself) that this has always been about love? I can trust this. I can start from love.
Maybe I'm not a drop in the ocean; maybe my love is like an ocean: vast, expansive, deep, buoying, unfolding. The ocean that holds me. The ocean that knows – has always known – I am a part of these waters.
