Coaching with Sol

for the work of staying human

Each person has a cadence that is natively theirs. A rhythm of attention, of body, of how the days are shaped, that was there before the conditions of contemporary life slowly overrode it.

Most people can still feel it, faintly. A memory of a kind of presence they used to have. A sense that something has thinned without being able to say exactly what or when.

This work is about finding your way back to it while the option is still real.

I'm Sol. I'm a coach, and what follows is what this work actually looks like, who it tends to be for, and how to begin. There is a part of this that no piece of writing can do for you. That part is what I do.

What I actually believe

I am not here to ask you to abandon your phone. I am not here to ask you to leave your job, delete your accounts, move to the woods, or perform any of the dramatic gestures that the wellness industry sometimes confuses for change.

I am here for something quieter and harder.

I believe most people reading this love their work. Many of you build with AI for a living, or use it constantly, or are deeply embedded in the technology that's reshaping the world right now. That is not the problem. The problem is that the same conditions that make this work fascinating also make it almost impossible to stay connected to the parts of yourself that have nothing to do with screens. The body. The breath. The rhythms older than any tool. The strange specific richness of being a creature in time.

You can have both. That's what this work is about. The path is collaboration without disappearance. Using what is being built without becoming what is being built. This site itself was made in collaboration with AI, and I'm sitting here writing this on a Tuesday, my body in a chair, the light changing outside the window, fully a person. The proof of concept is the page you're reading. It is possible. I will show you how.

Who's writing this

I'm a dancer. A singer. I play music badly and sing off-key and it doesn't stop me. I'm a gardener. A traveler. A philosopher when there's a good kitchen and someone willing to stay up. I meditate. I do yoga. I study psychology. I use AI and technology with intention. I'm a father.

I have moved through worlds most people only see one of at a time. The front lines of where AI is being built. The far edges of consciousness work, where people are reaching for what is most ancient in human experience. Festival fields and meditation halls. The geek table, the jock table, the popular table, the table where the goths sat. I sat at all of them. I still do. I don't lean far on one side or the other, and I know that's unusual. I think that's part of why I can do this work.

I am a father, and I know what it means to bring a young person into a world whose shape we cannot fully see. The world they will grow up in will be unlike anything we were ever used to. That fact lives in me as a kind of urgency. Not panic. A clear-eyed sense that the practices I am pointing toward are not abstract. They are what I am trying to keep alive in my own life, in the home my child is growing up in, in the days we share.

I have stood at the edges where things get strange. The meditation cushion when an hour starts to feel like a long time. The dance floor when no one is watching and your body has forgotten how to move. The conversation with another human when the small talk runs out and something real has to be said next. The hour without screens when the restlessness comes up and the hand reaches reflexively for the pocket. I know these places. I know how it feels when you are starting to do something you used to know how to do and you are not sure you remember. I know the pull back to the comfortable conduit, the easy distraction, the feed.

I also know what is on the other side of staying with it.

That part, the part I want to name plainly, is what I do with people. I have moved through that discomfort enough times in my own life to recognize it when someone else is sitting in it. I know how to stay with someone there. I know the shape of what tends to come up when a person stays with something a little longer than they thought they could. There is a specific kind of life that becomes available to someone who learns to hold their ground at those edges, and that life is what this work is in service of.

Why a guide

Most people, when they first feel something thinning in the way they move through their days, think they can do it on their own. Read a few books. Take some walks. Put the phone in a drawer. Call it good.

Sometimes that works. Often it doesn't, and the reason isn't weakness.

The reason is structural. Every system you spend your day inside is engineered to pull you away from presence. The apps. The work rhythms. The social expectations of constant availability. The ambient assumption that a good day is a productive day and a productive day is one with no empty hours in it. Going against that current alone is like trying to swim upstream in a river you can't see. Most people drift back without noticing.

A guide is not someone with secret knowledge. A guide is someone who lives downstream of the same current you do, and who has figured out, with their own body, how to keep the rhythms intact while staying inside the world. I am one of those people. I am not perfect at it. I am practiced.

There's also something specific that happens when another human bears witness to what you're trying to become. Goals named alone fade. Goals named to another person who takes them seriously stay. This is older than coaching. It is the structure of every meaningful change human beings have ever made. The guide is not there to teach you the path. The guide is there to see you walking it, which is what makes the walking real.

And there's one more thing, the part most people don't realize until they experience it. When your week is full of screens, feeds, and synthetic responses, an hour of conversation with another person who is fully present to you is itself rare. The conversation is not only about reclaiming presence. The conversation is presence, practiced. You will not understand how rare this has become until you sit inside it for the first time.

What the work looks like

We meet over video for 90 minutes, usually weekly or every other week.

The conversations start wherever you are. Sometimes that's a specific question you're sitting with. Sometimes it's a feeling you can't name. Sometimes it's a goal you've been trying to reach for a year that hasn't moved. Sometimes it's the recognition that your relationship with your phone, or your work, or your own body, has drifted somewhere you don't want it to be, and you're not sure how to course correct.

The work is not a curriculum. I don't have a system to take you through, because there isn't one that fits everyone. Each person carries their own anchors: the particular practices and experiences through which their humanness most comes alive. For one person it's dance. For another it's long conversations over a meal. For another it's being outside in weather, alone. For another it's something none of those words name. I certainly have some of those. Part of what we do together is help you notice what's actually yours. Not all of them. Yours.

Once you've started to find them, the harder work begins. Returning to a practice you've been away from for a long time is uncomfortable in a specific way. The body resists. The mind looks for the easier conduit. The phone is right there, and the phone does not ask anything of you. There is a specific moment, often within the first few minutes of trying, when most people quietly retreat. I know that moment. I know how to be company for it without rushing it. I know what tends to emerge on the other side, when a person stays a little longer than they thought they could. That is most of what this work actually is.

Over time, what tends to happen is this. Patterns become visible. The places you'd been outsourcing important parts of your life, to a feed, to a tool, to a habit you didn't choose, come into focus. Small experiments begin. A walk without headphones. An hour without screens before sleep. A conversation with someone you love that you've been putting off. The experiments stack. Something shifts in how you move through your days. The shift is usually quieter than people expect, and steadier.

This is not therapy. I am also a counseling graduate student, and that training shapes how I listen, but the coaching work is its own thing. We are not treating a condition. We are practicing being a person inside a world that has stopped making that easy.

Who this is for

This work is for you if any of the following lands.

Something about your relationship with screens, or AI, or the rhythms of your work has begun to cost you. You're starting to feel it. You don't want to leave the work. You want to figure out how to do it without losing yourself.

You've absorbed a lot of ideas about what a more grounded life might look like. You can describe it. You may have read your way through it more than once. The actual living of it is somewhere you haven't been able to reach, and you're starting to suspect the gap won't close on its own.

Something is quietly being lost in your life and you can't put your finger on it. There used to be a quality to your days, or your attention, or your body, that you can't quite locate anymore. You're not sure when it left or whether it can come back.

You're at a point where continuing to drift is no longer acceptable. Something has to change. You want a guide who has thought about this seriously and can hold the work with you while you find your way.

Or maybe none of those is exactly you, and you're reading this anyway. However you arrived, something in you is saying yes. That's enough. The fit will become clearer in conversation.

A note on what this costs, and why

What people pay for this work funds the continuation of it. My time and attention are finite, and the people who choose to work with me make it possible for me to keep doing this fully, rather than splitting my energy between this and a job that pays the rent.

A portion of what comes in goes back out. Toward counselors, community spaces, dance halls, meditation centers, art programs that don't live on a screen. The kinds of human-centered work that tend to wither in a culture optimized for digital attention. This practice is upstream of those things, and the money that flows through this work is meant to flow toward them.

This frame matters to me. The exchange is not extraction. It is circulation. You are paying for an hour and a half of one human's full attention, and that attention is part of a larger movement of resources toward what keeps human beings human.

How to begin

The first conversation is free.

It's a 20 to 30 minute discovery call where we meet, you tell me what's bringing you here, and we figure out together whether this work is right for you. There is no pressure to continue afterward. Some people book a single session from there. Some commit to a package. Some realize the conversation itself was what they needed and don't return for a while. We'll find what's right for you.

If you decide to continue, here is what's available.

The package pricing reflects a discount that grows with the depth of commitment. The discovery call surfaces what shape the work should take.

When you book, you'll get a confirmation from me with the video link and a calendar invite. I'll follow up separately with a payment link, and payment within 24 hours holds the slot. Sessions can be rescheduled up to 48 hours before, with a full refund. Inside that window, I hold the time regardless: if something comes up, the session still happens or the time is held for you.

Book a discovery call →

If you've read this far, something in you is already moving toward this. I don't take that lightly.

There is no urgency to commit to anything today. This work is patient, and so am I. It will be here when you're ready.

If you've been waiting for a real person to walk this with you, my door is open.

— Sol