Mr. Coach Dad

Balancing Coaching, Fatherhood, and the Fine Line Between Both

It’s the end of my usual workday, and I pull into the driveway.

Coaching is intense. Working with high-performance athletes means the environment is constantly charged—expectations are high, pressure is real, and even the coaches are competing (if not openly, then quietly) to prove who’s producing the best outcomes.

Some days you feel like you nailed it. Other days… not so much. And on those days, before I walk through the front door, I take a breath. Not to unwind—but to reset.

Because here’s the thing: in coaching, it’s easy to start tying your value to outcomes. Wins, rankings, performance metrics. And that feeling? It’s not unlike parenting.

I’ve had friends ask, “How do you separate the roles? How do you show up as coach, dad, professional, mentor—and still keep your sanity?”

The truth is… I don’t always get it right. But over time, I’ve learned a few things that help. And if you’ve ever found yourself lacing up your coaching shoes after making breakfast for the same kid who’s now lining up for warm-up drills… this blog is for you.

Change the Gear, Change the Role

I’ve made a general rule for myself when I get home: I change out of my coaching clothes.

Doesn’t matter if it’s team gear or work attire—I get out of it. It’s not just about comfort, it’s about shifting gears. Mentally and emotionally.

Coaching is high-output work. You’re constantly thinking, solving, leading. But when I step into the house, my family doesn’t need a coach—they need a dad. And I’ve learned that even small rituals, like changing clothes, help me leave the clipboard mindset at the door and re-enter the home as fully present as possible.

It’s not a perfect system. Sometimes the post-practice adrenaline follows me in. But that change of clothes? It’s my reminder: new role, new hat.

Remembering the Why

When I’m having a tough day in coaching—when the session didn’t click, when the results weren’t there, or when I just feel off—I try to come back to why I do it in the first place.

Especially when I’m coaching my own kids.

It’s not just about tactics or development plans. It’s about time spent together. It’s about learning from each other. But more than anything, it’s about building memories.

That’s something I come back to often:

What do I want them to remember?

Do I want them to remember me breaking down a game film in the car, or do I want them to remember that after a tough loss, we went for ice cream and laughed about something completely unrelated?

Coaching my kids gives me a rare window into their world—and gives them a window into mine. That doesn’t mean I always get it right. But if I can help them grow and also give them moments they’ll carry into adulthood, then I’m doing something meaningful.

Let Them Choose Who Answers

One of the biggest lessons I’ve learned—and something I try to pass on to each of my kids—is this: You get to choose who answers your question.

We have a rule: on the ice or on the pitch, they call me Coach. That’s the environment we’re in, and that’s the role I’m playing. But once we step away, the game ends, and the bags hit the trunk, they get to decide who they’re talking to.

Are they asking their Coach for feedback?

Or are they just talking to Dad?

It gives them a sense of control. It helps keep the relationship from getting blurry or overloaded with performance talk. And sometimes, the best answer is no answer at all—just being there, listening, or moving on to something that has nothing to do with sport.

Letting them choose who answers builds trust. It reminds them that their value to me isn’t tied to how they played. And it reminds me that coaching is just one of the many jobs I’m lucky to have in their lives.

Coach Speaks Truth, Dad Builds Memory

When they ask for Coach, I answer openly and honestly. No sugarcoating, no filters—just clear feedback. But I also make sure to ask, “Do you agree with what Coach just said?”

It opens the door for dialogue. For critical thinking. For them to reflect, not just receive.

But when they choose Dad, the rule is different.

When I speak as Dad, I only speak to add to the moment—to their confidence, their sense of safety, their memory of that day. No criticism. No technical breakdown. Just something positive they can take with them. The role of Dad is to Add.

Sometimes that means saying, “I loved watching you out there.”

Sometimes it means a smile and a snack.

And sometimes… it’s just silence. Letting the car ride be quiet and calm after a stormy game.

Because the Dad voice is the one that lasts. That’s the one that sticks when the sport fades and the uniform gets boxed up. So I guard that role carefully.

Coach, You Talk Too Much

There’s one part of this experience that I’ve learned the most from—and it might surprise you.

At the end of practices or games, I’ll often ask my kids, “How was my coaching today?” It’s not a trick question. I really want to know. And it turns out, getting feedback from an eight-year-old can be pretty humbling.

One time, I asked that question, expecting a quick “good” or maybe some praise. But little Mr. Insightful put me right in my place.

He looked at me and said,

“Coach, sometimes you have to just slow down and not say so much. We’re eight and trying to do what you’re telling us, but we need time to figure it out before you say something else.”

Boom.

Right then, I shut up. Because he was right.

Since that day, I’ve made a point to check in with myself—not just on what I’m saying, but how much, and how fast. It’s easy to forget that development isn’t instant, and that silence sometimes teaches more than instruction.

And I’ll be honest: being coached by your own kid? That’s a lesson I won’t forget.

Final Whistle

Being a coach and a dad at the same time is one of the hardest, most rewarding balancing acts I’ve ever attempted. The roles blur, the emotions mix, and the stakes feel high—but if I keep asking myself the right questions, and listening to theirs, I know I’m on the right path.

I may not always have the perfect practice plan, or the right substitution at the right time. But if I can help my kids grow and still come out of it with stronger relationships and great memories, I’m okay with that.

Because in the end, I’m not raising athletes.

I’m raising people.

And that job will always come first cause it’s the greatest job in the world.