Everyone thinks my job is great. I get to do something I love. I get to help people do something amazing and life affirming.

It sounds great. It can be. But, it’s much more than simply helping someone learn how to run. It transcends helping someone get better at the act of putting one foot in front of the other.

For some, I am merely the guy who puts together a training plan for them. For others, I am the answer to all of the running problems they’ve ever had. There are others who need a therapist, not a coach.

Fortunately, I’ve taken a few psychology classes. That doesn’t mean I’m qualified to counsel. But, it helps.

It makes it a bit easier to discern what buttons to push. It makes it easier to identify which buttons not to push. Figuring out what will get someone to run a bit faster or a bit further becomes a slightly less complicated puzzle.

But, it’s always a puzzle. What worked for one of my runners may be completely ineffective for someone else. What motivated one may completely de-motivate someone else.

There’s always a lingering fear of failure. Despite my best intentions, despite my best efforts, there’s so much I can’t control. Failure is always a possibility.

The race doesn’t unfold well. The mind fails. The body breaks.

I have limited ability to control any of the aforementioned. But, when any of these circumstances unfold, the feeling of failure is there. I missed something. Loose ends remain.

There are some things I can’t know. These are the things that keep me awake at night. My mind spins trying to resolve the unresolvable.

Coaching is not a profession for one who likes things to be neat and tidy. Things get messy. Things can get ugly.

I am well versed in the art of self-flagellation. But, sometimes the flagellation comes from those you tried to help. Fair or not, the finger is sometimes pointed at you.

I failed to provide something. My plan was flawed. My direction wasn’t precise enough.

I try not to personalize it. I try not to let it hurt. But, it stings.

I want every step to be accompanied by the runner’s high. I want every mile they log to be a work of art. I want every race to be a personal best.

But, I am a realist. The runner’s high is never guaranteed. Some miles are a work of art. Others are a slog. Personal bests are often unicorns. Running is replete with mysteries that will likely never be solved.

The loose ends can haunt. The failings (real or imagined) can linger. The disconnect between the ideal and the real can flummox.

Sometimes I get mired in this pungent miasma of loose ends, failings, and disconnect. Getting out is not always easy. But, my typical escape strategy is no real surprise. It’s the only real strategy I have.

I get up. I lace up. I get out.