Three Years Later

Three years ago, I walked away from a school rowing program that I believed I would help build for many years to come. I have never coached again. When I accepted the role, it was my first head coaching position. I had only ever coached individual age groups before that, and within a few weeks I was responsible for an entire club. I arrived full of ideas, energy, and a genuine desire to create something better for the athletes. The club I inherited was uneven. Some age groups were thriving; others had been neglected. I focused on systems, organisation, safety, and accountability. By the end of my first season, almost every boat in the fleet was operational. I was demanding of coaches because I believed athletes deserved the best possible opportunity to succeed. That first season was one of the proudest periods of my career. One athlete whom I coached for only a year earned South African colours, and she became the eleventh athlete I had coached to that level. I was a tough coach, and I know that. I valued discipline, knowledge, and teaching athletes to think independently rather than simply seeking approval. Then everything changed. A conflict involving parents, coaches, and team leadership escalated far beyond what I ever imagined. Complaints were lodged against me, relationships fractured, and a situation that I believed could have been resolved became increasingly hostile. At the same time, I had already raised concerns about conduct and ethical issues within the sports department against our Head of Sport. Looking back, I often wonder whether those concerns contributed to what followed. Eventually, the school and I agreed to part ways. I was not dismissed, but I left feeling that there was no path forward. What happened afterwards hurt even more. I was told that rumors were being spread about me, including allegations that I had sabotaged equipment before a regatta, something I had not done and, in fact, had not even been present to do. I heard that I was being described in ways that made me sound dangerous or untrustworthy. Whether every rumor was true or not, the effect was devastating. It felt as though my professional reputation was being dismantled while I stood silently on the outside. One comment has stayed with me for years: that I would never work in rowing again. I do not know whether those exact words were spoken, but the fear certainly took root. For three years I did not apply for another coaching position. Recently, I submitted applications for two head rowing roles, not because I expected to accept them, but because I wanted to prove to myself that I was brave enough to apply. Pressing “submit” felt like a small act of healing. In the years since leaving coaching, I have built my own practice. I work long hours, I help people every day, and I know I am good at what I do. Patients trust me. Athletes seek my guidance. Professionally, I have created something meaningful from the ground up. And yet I still grieve the coach I used to be. The hardest part is that it did not end on my terms. I felt backstabbed by people I trusted. I used to say that I was careful about who I allowed to sit at my table, and it felt as though many of the people I welcomed there eventually turned against me. I still think about the athletes I coached, the program I hoped to build, and the future I believed was possible. What surprises me most is the anger that remains. There have been moments when I have wanted others to feel the pain I felt. Admitting that is uncomfortable, but it is part of the truth. The healthier truth is that I chose not to fight publicly, not to trade insults, and not to spend years trying to destroy anyone else. Instead, I stepped back, rebuilt my life, and tried to hold my head high. This experience changed the way I see school sport. I believe that too often adults become entangled in politics, influence, reputation, and conflict, while the development of resilient, independent young athletes becomes secondary. I saw how quickly narratives can be shaped and how difficult it is for one person to defend themselves once a story has taken hold. Three years later, I am still healing. I do not know whether I will ever return to coaching. Perhaps one day I will. Perhaps I will choose a different path entirely. What I know is that a job does not define a person, even when losing that job feels like losing a part of yourself. For now, my healing began with a single application form and the courage to believe that my story did not end there.