I’ve been reflecting on a quote often attributed to Martin Luther: “I cannot stop a bird from flying over my head, but I can stop her from building a nest in my hair.” It is a simple image, yet a powerful one. In coaching—and in leadership—it captures something essential about how we relate to our own thinking in real time.

In the midst of a conversation, a thought arises. It may be a moment of self-doubt, an urge to fix, a quick judgment, or an assumption about what is happening. These thoughts often appear quietly and without invitation, yet they carry influence. They shape how we listen, how we interpret, and how we respond—sometimes before we even realize it. We may not be able to stop these thoughts from appearing. They are part of being human. But we can choose whether they stay and begin building nests of their own.

This distinction matters more than we might think. The quality of our presence is not determined solely by what we know or what we say. It is shaped by how we relate to what is happening within us in the moment. When we become aware of our internal responses, we create the possibility of choosing rather than reacting. Without that awareness, even the most skilled coach or leader can find themselves subtly driven by assumptions, judgments, or the need to resolve what feels uncomfortable.

Lately, I’ve been using a simple practice I call the NEST Model of Reflective Presence™. It offers a way to notice our thinking, gently examine it, and return to presence with greater intention. The model is straightforward, yet its impact can be profound.

The first step is Notice. At its core, this is about awareness—asking, “What am I aware of right now?” A thought, reaction, or emotional shift arises, and instead of immediately acting on it, or accepting it as true, we pause just long enough to recognize it. This might show up as a subtle tightening in the body, a shift in attention, or the quiet beginning of an internal narrative. We are not trying to change anything yet; we are simply noticing what is present. Awareness creates space, and in that space, something important becomes possible.

The second step is Examine. Here we begin to explore the meaning we are making. We might ask, “What story am I telling myself right now?” or “What assumption might be shaping my response?” Perhaps we are interpreting a client’s words through our own lens of experience or holding an expectation about how the conversation should unfold. This step is not about judging the thought, but about understanding it. When we examine our thinking, we begin to see that our thoughts are not fixed truths—they are interpretations. And interpretations can be reconsidered.

From there, we move to Shift. With greater awareness and clarity, we can begin to ask, “What else is possible?” This question opens the door to curiosity. What might I be missing? What other interpretations could be true? What if the opposite were also possible? Rather than narrowing into a single perspective, we allow the field to expand. In coaching, this helps us remain open to the client’s experience rather than imposing our own. In leadership, it supports more thoughtful and less reactive decision-making. Curiosity creates space for new insight.

The final step is Transform. At this point, we are no longer reacting automatically; we are choosing how to show up. The question becomes, “How will I respond from presence?” The response may be subtle—a more open question, a deeper level of listening, or a willingness to allow silence. Yet this is where the shift becomes embodied. It is the movement from habit to intention, from reaction to response, from thinking to presence.

Changing our thinking begins with noticing. It is often a small pause, a brief moment of awareness, yet it holds the power to transform how we listen, lead, and coach. Over time, these moments accumulate. They strengthen our capacity to remain present under pressure, to listen without attachment or agenda, and to respond with greater clarity and care.
Presence does not come from having the “right” thought. It comes from noticing the thought—and choosing what happens next.

The bird may still fly by overhead, but we do not invite her in to begin building that nest.

In a few days, I’ll board a plane to join colleagues at a coaching event. Three days later, I’ll board another plane to meet my horse in Scottsdale for a ten-day equestrian competition.

Two arenas.
Two very different worlds.
One shared lesson.

As I prepare for both, I keep coming back to three intertwined ideas: presence, competence, and performance.
In my professional coaching life, we begin with competencies. We study them. Practice them. Refine them. We learn how to establish agreements, listen deeply, evoke awareness, and maintain ethical boundaries. Early on, it requires effort. We think about every move.

Competence comes first.

Over time — if we stay committed — those competencies begin to move inward. The structure settles. The internal monitoring quiets. What once felt effortful becomes embodied.

Presence begins to emerge.

In my horse life, however, the order is reversed. With Clara, my equine partner, presence comes first.
Our partnership has been built over years — through repetition, setbacks, subtle adjustments, and quiet trust. In the arena, she responds to things I cannot hide: tension in my shoulders, distraction in my mind, hesitation in my breath.

Horses are masters of incongruence detection.

If I am not fully present, she knows. And our performance will reflect it.
Our competence grows out of our presence together. Without that attuned connection, no amount of technical skill carries us through a pattern cleanly. With it, performance becomes fluid and beautiful. This contrast has been teaching me something.

In coaching, competence can become the gateway to presence.

In horsemanship, presence is the gateway to competence.

In both arenas, performance is the visible outcome — but it is the least interesting part of the equation.
What makes performance in the show ring sustainable is the connection between horse and rider—another way of describing presence. As I maintain my connection with Clara, our shared presence steadies our shared competence, refines our performance, and deepens our partnership.

Clients feel when we are performing competence rather than inhabiting it. They sense when our questions are technically strong but relationally thin. Just as a horse senses tension, a client senses our divided attention. Presence in the coaching arena is not passive—rather it is disciplined attentiveness.

It requires regulation.
It requires coherence between intention and action.
It requires the humility to soften when pushing forward would be easier.

As I zip suitcases and review schedules, I’m reminded that both the coaching arena and the show ring ask the same thing of me:
Settle yourself.
Trust the process.
Stay attuned.

Let competence support you — but do not grip it.
Performance may be what others see.
Presence is what makes it real.

Where in your work does presence come before competence — and where does competence lead you toward presence?

On June 6, 2025, I underwent total knee replacement surgery—a milestone shaped by both a life well lived and the inevitabilities of degenerative arthritis. As I reflect on my recovery, I see clear intersections between my healing journey and my pursuit of continued growth and excellence as a professional coach.
I’ve inhabited this remarkable body for 64 years. For much of that time, I’ve also been privileged to walk alongside others as their coach. Coaching fuels and grounds me with daily purpose. Several years ago, embracing the International Coaching Federation (ICF) framework transformed both my practice and my perspective, inspiring me to pursue its highest credential: the Master Certified Coach (MCC).

Learning to Walk Again
In the days after surgery, my focus narrowed to survival and adaptation. I learned to walk again, leaning on my brother, my walker, and later my cane. Each tentative step was costly—paid for in pain and swelling—but I held a vision of movement and freedom that guided me. Gradually, that vision gave rise to new habits of discipline, patience, and resilience.
At first, progress felt painfully slow. My gait was shortened, my stride awkward. I feared this was to become my “new normal.” Yet I stayed open, trusting my physical therapists and their carefully measured regimens. Sometimes progress meant more pain, more swelling, more frustration. Other times it came as the tiniest widening of my gait—imperceptible to me, but clear to those watching closely.

Learning to Coach Differently
My first steps toward the MCC credential followed a similar path. I began taping my coaching sessions and enrolled in a Level 3 training program. Reviewing my own recordings against the ICF competencies offered immediate feedback. I quickly saw what was working—and where I needed to shift.
Like many coaches, I talked too much. Even as I narrowed my word count over the years, I still found myself over-explaining, over-filling space. It took practice and focus to release that habit and embrace a deeper stance of listening. I learned to offer clients the spaciousness to wander—just as I prefer when I’m in a museum, free to let the art itself speak to me.
Over time, I released expectations, let go of the need to “serve,” and began trusting both my clients and the coaching process. I experimented with new approaches: limiting myself to seven-word questions, studying accomplished MCC coaches, and trying on different ways of being. Some clients were bemused by my sudden shifts, just as I sometimes struggled with my new knee—but I kept at it, trusting that new habits would take root.

Measuring Progress—On the Mat and in Coaching
Just as my therapists measured my gait, my mentors and supervisors measured my coaching. We watched, reflected, and celebrated milestones. I acknowledged shortcomings—my “longcomings” of too many words—and gradually shifted my coach speech from over 30% of a session into the 20s. Each small drop felt like a widening stride, a step closer to the MCC presence I was seeking.
Breaking into the mid-20% range was a milestone as exhilarating as my first pain-free walk down a long hallway. Neither meant the journey was complete. Both reminded me that progress often arrives in small increments, quietly compounding into transformation.

The Deeper Parallel
Both healing and coaching have required me to practice trust, patience, and openness to outcomes I cannot fully predict. Some days brought setbacks, swelling, or self-doubt. Other days brought breakthroughs—greater ease in my stride, greater spaciousness in my coaching. In both journeys, I’ve been sustained by vision, discipline, and the steady encouragement of guides and companions.
Ultimately, I’ve learned that mastery—whether of body or of craft—is less about perfection and more about presence. It’s found in the willingness to keep stepping forward, to trust the process, and to celebrate the quiet, almost imperceptible shifts that, over time, carry us to new horizons.
This summer, those horizons became wonderfully tangible. After months of disciplined physical therapy, I bent my new knee past 130 degrees—a milestone I once feared might never come. Almost simultaneously, I submitted my MCC application—another moment born of persistence, practice, and trust. Both achievements remind me that healing and mastery unfold step by step, bend by bend, choice by choice—until one day we realize we’ve crossed into new terrain, stronger and more whole than before.
With every bend of my new knee and every client conversation, I am reminded that the path to healing and mastery is not found in giant leaps, but in the faithful steps that carry us forward into new possibilities— and into the fullest expression of who we are and who we are becoming.