#Unsettled

My husband and I have taken to walking together lately. Our schedules have been completely out of sync, so we’ve been actively stealing those quiet moments just to catch up with one another.

My husband spent a good portion of his life as a professional baseball player, and after retirement, he made the transition to coaching. Because of that, our walks often turn into a form of therapeutic, verbal processing. When he’s in the thick of a season, his mind is constantly spinning: What does the lineup look like? Who is pitching next? Who has been hustling in practice, and who has been coachable?

I like to think I’m helping him strategize, but the truth is, sometimes he just needs me to listen so he can work it out out loud. A theme we often return to is that during his own playing career, he was always open to constructive criticism. He was coachable.

Now, on the other side of the desk, he has to shift the perspective. He’s gotten good at it over the past ten years. He even holds exit meetings with his players at the end of the year, where he sits them down and lays out the cold, hard truth about their performance and areas of growth.

I love that he has implemented this into his program, because it teaches these young athletes more than just the sport. It’s an exercise in growth and handling criticism.

It got me thinking about my fifteen-year-old daughter. She’s a competitive dancer now, but she swam for years. When she was just in elementary school, she had a swim coach who was incredibly firm and held high expectations for her swimmers—not just regarding their times in the pool, but their behavior and how they represented the team.

One afternoon, I walked up to the pool deck just in time to catch the tail end of a stern lecture the coach was giving the kids. My daughter got into the car afterward and was quiet for a few moments.

I leaned over and asked her if she was okay after that “talking to.”

My little six-year-old sage looked at me and said, “Coach is tough on us because she loves us and wants us to always try our best and be good humans.”

I sat there and marveled at her perception. At six years old, she already demonstrated what it meant to be coachable. Today, as a teenager, she still carries that trait. (Does the teen attitude rear its head every once in a while? Of course. She’s human.) But she remains entirely receptive to constructive criticism.

Right now, she has a wonderful mentor based out of California whom she Zooms with once a week. They don’t just talk about dance technique; they talk about preparation, navigating team dynamics, self-care, and understanding her own boundaries. When she finishes a dance competition, she doesn’t just celebrate the wins—she actively watches the video playback of her corrections from the judges, searching for ways to improve. She is constantly seeking to be better, not just in dance, but in life.

On our most recent walk, I looked at my husband and posed a question: What does it look like to be “coachable” as an adult?

We have a friend who has bounced from job to job for years. Every single time a job ends, there is an immediate list of excuses. Nothing is ever their fault. The boss was out to get them, the culture was toxic, the expectations were unrealistic. They are, by definition, uncoachable.

As my husband and I kept walking, we realized we actually know a number of adults who possess that exact same uncoachable personality trait. It made me wonder: Is being coachable a learned behavior, or is it something we are born with?

I think upbringing has a lot to do with it, but it’s also a skill that innately comes easier to some than others. Personally, I believe organized sports and team activities have a massive impact on this. Love them or hate them, being on a team teaches you that life is so much bigger than winning.

Teamwork forces you to learn how to coexist. Maybe you don’t like a teammate; you don’t have to hang out with them off the field, but during the game, you cheer for them. Don’t like the coach or the teacher? Learn to deal with it.

One of my favorite personal mottos is: Suck it up, buttercup.

Team dynamics teach kids time management, prioritization, and accountability. (And let’s be honest—as much as we parents love to complain about the grueling schedules, the travel logistics, and the money, we secretly love every second of it.)

But as I was mentally applauding my daughter and dissecting our uncoachable friends, the whole exercise turned inward, and my internal alarm rang.

Am I coachable?

If you know me, you know I am that one friend people call when they need tough love or the cold, hard truth. I know my delivery isn’t always warm, fuzzy, or cuddly. I can dish it out. But how do I actually react when I am on the receiving end of criticism—constructive or otherwise?

I’d love to sit here and tell you that I take it with a beautiful, graceful smile.

But if I am being truly honest with myself… I get defensive. And then, I get dismissive. I shut down, justify my actions, and mentally write off the feedback—not always, but at least half the time. And I really don’t want to be that person.

Like I said, those walks are therapeutic. Most of the time when I am walking or swimming laps, I am trapped inside my own head, locked in a room with my own thoughts. Bouncing those heavy internal realizations off someone else—especially someone who loves you enough to give you the honest truth—is a total game-changer for self-reflection.

Growth is supposed to be uncomfortable.

So, I am making a conscious, intentional choice to be more coachable. I want to be the best version of myself, even when the feedback stings, even when my ego wants to fight back, and even when it forces me to look in the mirror and change.

How about you? When life gives you an exit meeting or a judge’s correction, do you listen? Or are you still making excuses?