Why one-size-fits-all doesn’t fit at all—and how we can do better.

Finding the right coach (with methods, pacing, communication, equity frameworks, emotional rhythm, and everything else) isn’t so different from finding the right running shoe. The perfect pair doesn’t just fit your foot. It fits your stride, terrain, body weight, running history, and what kind of day you’ve had. It cushions where you need softness and supports where you need structure. It disappears when it fits.

Coaching should be the same. And yet, too often, we offer runners plans that are off-the-rack. We design coaching around assumptions: about time, energy, bodies, language, identity, without first checking: does this actually fit the person in front of me? In this short essay, I share how I approach coaching not as an act of prescription, but as a practice of precision care. Not one-size-fits-all, but fit-focused. Because a good plan doesn’t just get you across a finish line. It helps you come home to yourself along the way.


1. Start with a comprehensive athlete intake
Customization begins with listening; deeply, curiously, and across more than pace and mileage. Before I ever write a single workout, I try to understand the human behind the running. Not the athlete as a set of stats or a list of goals, but as a person with rhythms, thresholds, patterns, pain, hopes, histories. That means going far beyond “What are your goals?” Coaching, for me, begins not with performance metrics, but with presence. And presence requires listening. Not listening to reply, or to optimize. But listening with curiosity and humility, and with the awareness that no one shows up to this sport without a story, and that how they train, recover, and relate to their body is shaped by far more than just training theory.

That’s why I don’t start with a generic questionnaire or a templated goal sheet. I start with a comprehensive intake that is less about information and more about orientation, how do they move through the world, what shapes their decisions, and what do they need to feel seen and supported.

Psychological profile & mindset: I want to know more than their PRs or what race they’re targeting. I want to understand: Have they experienced burnout before? What led to it? How do they stay motivated or lose motivation? Do they light up from chasing goals, or shut down under pressure? Are they process-driven (curious about the journey) or outcome-driven (fixated on results)? Or a blend? Some runners will say “I (just) want to finish,” and then casually mention they’d love to qualify for UTMB. Others will say they’re all-in on a sub 3 hour marathon goal, but their body language says they’re afraid to fall short again. The intake helps name those tensions early. It’s all about clarity.

Life context & adaptive capacity: Training doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It happens between commutes, childcare, meetings, aging parents, hormones, grief, and seasonal shifts in energy. So I ask: What does a typical week look like, for real? Where do they feel most energized? Where do they get stuck? What seasons of the year are most stressful or joyful? What’s their capacity for change, and what supports them when things wobble? Someone might have the time to train but not the mental bandwidth. Someone else might squeeze runs between caregiving blocks, navigating sleep deprivation and invisible labor. Coaching them the same would be negligent. This is also where I begin to understand their adaptive capacity, how they respond to stress, and how coaching can support, not strain, that system.

Cultural and identity markers: No one is just a runner. We carry race, gender, language, class, disability, neurodivergence, trauma, migration, queerness, and community with us on the trail. And how safe or welcome someone feels in sport is shaped by all of it. I invite voluntary sharing around: language preferences, accessibility needs, religious and cultural rhythms, gendered experiences in sport, safety on trails or in training environments, whether they feel like they belong in the running world, or are still figuring that out. This part of the intake isn’t about checking boxes. It’s about building relational context. It’s about not assuming my experience is universal.

Learning style & communication preferences. Some people need structure, others need space. Some want check-ins, others want a light touch. Coaching without understanding how someone takes in, processes, and integrates information is like handing them a map in the wrong language. So I ask: Do you prefer voice notes, text, spreadsheet, calls, or a combination? Do you process visually, verbally, or kinesthetically? Do you like to see the whole plan, or just a few steps at a time? Do you get overwhelmed by numbers, or find comfort in tracking? This is where coaching starts to feel like partnership, not performance management. We begin to co-create a rhythm that feels like theirs.

Somatic & sensory awareness: I pay close attention to how people describe their bodies. Do they say “my legs felt dead” or “my body said no”? Do they notice subtle cues of fatigue, or do they only stop when things break down? I try to get a sense of: How their relationship is with pain, joy, and rest? Whether they were taught to override body cues or honor them? How they experience recovery, physically and emotionally? If they know what “enough” feels like, or only what “more” looks like? This is about helping runners learn to trust their own sensations, to run with their body instead of against it.

The intake begins with a detailed form that has lots of open space. I ask direct questions, but I also leave room for tangents, contradictions, or not knowing yet. Then we schedule a video call, not just to clarify the form, but to start building a human connection. That call is always included. It’s too important to put behind a paywall. After that, I offer feedback through whatever mode works best for the runner. I offer audio feedback for those who prefer to listen. I hate the sound of my own voice, but I love the sound of someone feeling heard.

This is slow, on purpose. It’s where the coaching relationship begins, not just the logistics, but the ethic of how we’ll work together. When runners are invited to show up fully, not just as performers, but as themself, something shifts. There’s more trust, permission, and precision.


2. Build modular training plans & feedback loops

Coaching isn’t just knowing what to prescribe. It’s knowing how to respond when life intervenes. And life is rarely linear: illness, deadlines, joy, childcare, grief, they all tilt the training week off-course. Modular planning doesn’t fight that. It flows with it. Runners learn to recognize which version they need, and toggle as necessary. This teaches responsiveness. It builds trust. It supports sustainability. This structure respects autonomy and fosters awareness. It shifts the athlete from passive recipient to active participant in their training.

Instead of assuming every week should look the same, I often co-create a few adaptable templates with each runner. A full energy week when everything clicks. A compressed week when time is short. A recovery week with more rest, play, and permission when needed. Athletes choose or toggle between options based on how their body and life feel. They also can get “menu-style” workouts: multiple versions of a session they can choose from depending on mood or terrain. We embed pre-scripted adaptations like: “If work gets wild, shift Thursday workout to Saturday.” Runners choose based on how they slept, what the weather’s doing, or where their body is that morning. It’s not about choosing what’s easiest, it’s about what makes sense.

Just as important: feedback must shape the plan. Too many coaches collect training logs and move on. I ask things like: “What part of last week drained you most? What made you feel most like yourself? Did your body bounce back, or did something stick?” We use a weekly green/yellow/red system. I respond. That’s the relationship. Because feedback isn’t a formality—it’s the pulse of the plan.


3. Customize the relational dynamic
You can give someone the most intelligent training plan in the world, beautifully periodized, precisely paced, science-backed, but if the relational dynamic is off, the plan won’t land. Coaching isn’t a sterile transaction. It’s a human relationship. Relationships require attention to tone, timing, trust, and temperament. Some runners want fire emojis, exclamation points, and “Let’s gooooo!” texts before every hard workout, others want a calm, steady voice. A coach who checks in softly, stays present, and lets the silence say enough. Some want to be challenged, others want to be reminded they can rest.

I try to focus on the way I speak, listen, ask questions, and show up (I still have a lot to learn). It’s part of what makes the coaching fit. Especially when coaching across lines of race, gender, neurodivergence, trauma, culture, and class, the relational tone matters as much as the training itself.

A coaching relationship should feel like something the athlete can breathe inside, not something they have to brace against.
– Ask how they like to be motivated: Quiet encouragement? Playful challenge? Formal structure?
– Discuss emotional tone: More hype or more ease? More accountability or more softness?
– Respect cultural differences: How people express pain, pride, fear, or disagreement isn’t universal. What looks like resistance may be caution. What looks like quiet may be deep trust.

As a Dutch person, I’ve had to unlearn a lot around bluntness. Cultural humility doesn’t weaken coaching. It sharpens it. More inclusive coaching isn’t about lowering standards—it’s about raising your sensitivity to difference.


4. Embed Inclusive, Ongoing Coach Learning

Customization isn’t just about the runner. It’s about the coach, too. It’s easy to think of coaching as a one-way act of care: you, the coach, responding to the athlete’s needs. Real customization requires that the coach is also changing: learning, listening, unlearning, evolving. You can’t coach across difference if you’re only relying on instinct. Especially if your instinct was shaped in a narrow lane (by a culture, sport, or system that rewarded sameness, speed, and silence about struggle).

The truth is, most coaching methods were built for a specific kind of athlete: often male, white, able-bodied, cis, neurotypical, financially resourced, rooted in traditions of discipline and hierarchy rather than dialogue and adaptation. If we inherit that system uncritically, we risk reproducing harm, even with the best intentions. So my work as a coach includes another layer of training: not just how to build mileage, but how to build equity. Not just how to coach better plans, but how to show up as a better person in the coaching relationship.

Here’s what that looks like in my practice:

Reading beyond the mainstream :I read books, essays, blogs, and reflections from runners whose experiences challenge dominant narratives; stories that complicate the assumptions around who runs, why we run, and what running feels like in different bodies. I learn from voices like Alison Mariella Désir, Mirna Valerio, Adharanand Finn, Sabrina Pace-Humphreys. Runners and writers who challenge dominant narratives about speed, shape, access, and belonging.

Joining diverse coaching communities: Learning in isolation limits the lens. So I seek out communities and mentors who: work across lines of identity and experience; are building inclusive, disability-aware, queer-affirming, decolonial, or trauma-informed coaching practices, and hold space for sideways mentorship, not just “expertise,” but co-learning, challenge, curiosity, and accountability. This might look like: attending events not just about performance, but about equity, access, or mental health in sport. Where mentorship isn’t just top-down, but sideways and reciprocal.

Revisiting my assumptions regularly: One of the most powerful coaching practices I’ve learned is to pause mid-plan and ask myself: Who am I designing this for? What assumptions am I making about time, energy, safety, access, goals? What kind of labor, emotional, financial, logistical, am I asking from this runner? Is this structure reinforcing grind culture or offering true flexibility? Who might this plan unintentionally exclude or alienate? Is this plan building trust? Or just compliance?

Sometimes I catch things that feel subtle, like using metaphors of conquest or war in my language (“crush it”) that don’t resonate with runners healing from trauma or moving for restoration. Other times I see ways I’ve defaulted to my own experience of motivation, pain, or discipline, assuming it’s shared. It rarely is.

You don’t need to be an expert in every identity to coach across difference. You do need to be willing to listen, adjust, and take responsibility for what you don’t yet know. You need to stay teachable. Stay responsive and open. Because the more we expand our lens—not just toward diversity, but toward deep inclusion—the more precisely, compassionately, and creatively we can help people move. That’s what coaching can be. Not just a transfer of expertise, but a relationship of mutual respect and co-evolution. And that’s what I try to bring, week after week, to every runner I support.


5. Final thought: let it fit
No two runners wear out a shoe in the same way. No two runners recover, dream, struggle, or thrive the same way either. And so no two training plans should look alike. We differ in how we hold stress, seek joy, metabolize fatigue, or find meaning in movement. A coaching plan that ignores this complexity isn’t neutral. It simply is inadequate. Customization isn’t a bonus, but it’s how we translate care into action. It’s how we take seriously the person in front of us.

So if you’re a runner reading this, I’ll say this clearly: Don’t mold yourself to a plan that wasn’t made for you. If something feels too rigid, overwhelming, or hollow, it’s not a failure on your part. It’s probably just a misfit. You deserve more than mileage and metrics. You deserve something that fits. Let the plan meet you, not the other way around. The best coaching doesn’t just get you across the finish. It helps you come home to yourself along the way.