Recognizing Value

There’s something subtle that happens in service professions — especially in coaching. We become so familiar with the work we do that we stop seeing how much of ourselves is embedded in it. Not in the obvious places, like the plan or the protocol, but in the quiet, everyday gestures that no one else notices.

A client sends a photo of a half-eaten meal, and you instinctively know what went wrong. Someone messages at 10 p.m. saying they’re craving sugar, and you talk them through the moment instead of ignoring it till morning. You remember their routine, their challenges, the things they shared casually but that mattered to them. You hold all of this — their doubts, their momentum, their fragile motivation — as if it were your own responsibility.

And strangely, we forget that this level of attention is rare.

The world has already placed a high value on focused expertise. Doctors bill for a few minutes of consultation. Dermatologists charge heavily for follow-ups. Trainers set fixed rates for sessions whether the client shows up or not. Nobody questions it, because the value has been normalised. You pay for the container, not the guarantee.

But coaching operates differently. It’s not a container — it’s companionship. And companionship is harder to price, because it comes from a very human place. We don’t measure our care in minutes or appointments. We measure it in desire — the desire to see someone succeed, to see them change their own story.

This is why so many coaches hesitate when they quote their fee. Not because the price is unreasonable, but because they’re unaware of the invisible work they’re offering. They compare their number to the plan on paper, not to the life they help someone reclaim. They forget that clients aren’t paying for information; they’re paying for the presence that keeps them accountable, the guidance that stops them from repeating old mistakes, the steady voice that helps them stay with the process when the process gets uncomfortable.

And when you look at it that way, the question shifts. It’s no longer, “How do I justify my price?” It becomes, “Why did I assume my work needed justification at all?”

Because value doesn’t come from the length of a session or the sophistication of a chart. It comes from the heart and discipline you pour into someone’s transformation — the kind of effort that can’t be outsourced, automated, or easily replaced.

When you recognise that, pricing stops feeling like a defence.

It feels like telling the truth