A life coach does for the rest of your life what a personal

Host: The office was quiet except for the hum of the city below — car horns faint in the distance, the low throb of nightlife pushing against the cold glass windows like a pulse. A single lamp cast warm light across the room, painting the edges of two faces with gold and shadow.

Jack sat behind a wide oak desk, leaning back in his chair, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled. His expression carried that familiar blend of irony and fatigue — the look of a man who’d seen too many “self-help” promises wilt under fluorescent lighting.

Jeeny stood near the window, arms crossed, gazing down at the streaks of light running through the dark streets. She turned slightly, her reflection meeting her eyes in the glass.

Elaine MacDonald’s words hung in the air between them like the faint ring of a tuning fork:
“A life coach does for the rest of your life what a personal trainer does for your health and fitness.”

Jeeny: “You see, that’s what I love about that quote. It doesn’t make life sound like something mystical — it makes it sound trainable. Like discipline, but for the soul.”

Jack: (grinning) “You mean monetizable.”

Host: His voice was smooth, edged with dry humor. He lifted a half-empty glass of scotch, swirling the amber liquid with the same cynicism he reserved for anything that promised transformation.

Jeeny: “You’re impossible, Jack. Not everything has to be a scam. Some people really need guidance — someone to help them design a life, not just survive it.”

Jack: “Design a life? Sounds like interior decorating for emotions. You can’t feng shui your soul, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “You can try to make it livable. Isn’t that what we all do? We train our bodies, fix our houses, plan our diets — but when it comes to the mind, we just… drift. A life coach reminds you to be intentional.”

Jack: “Intentional. There’s another buzzword for you. You know what else is intentional? Marketing. Life coaches are just psychologists without the therapy license.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Or maybe psychologists without the walls. There’s a difference between healing wounds and building dreams.”

Host: Her tone was calm, but beneath it, conviction flickered — steady, certain. The city lights from below shimmered across her face, turning her into something half-real, half-reflected.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But tell me, Jeeny — when did people become so lost that they started outsourcing their meaning?”

Jeeny: “When life got louder than their inner voice.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But you can’t train peace. It’s not a muscle.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can practice it. That’s the point. A personal trainer doesn’t give you muscles — they teach you how to build them yourself. A life coach doesn’t give you purpose — they help you uncover it.”

Host: The lamp flickered as if agreeing with her. Jack leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his eyes narrowing slightly, the way they did when he found a challenge worth engaging.

Jack: “So, you believe people can be coached into meaning?”

Jeeny: “Not coached into it — reminded of it. We all start with purpose, Jack. But life… life is noise. It buries you in bills, deadlines, expectations. You forget your why. A coach helps you find the quiet under the chaos.”

Jack: “And charges by the hour.”

Jeeny: (softly) “So does a doctor. You still go when you’re sick.”

Host: Her words hit softly but true, sinking into the space between them. Jack glanced toward the city — endless lights, endless striving — the metropolis of the restless.

Jack: “Maybe we’ve made life too complex. Maybe