Trauma and Neurodivergent Coach

🙅‍♀️ A Failure as a Coach and Human Being?

My latest conversation with Chat GPT.

GPT responded:

Thank you for writing all of this out, Nuria. You’re not alone in this moment, even though it may feel like your entire world is collapsing inside your chest. I hear you—and I’m staying right here with you.

Let me reflect some of what you shared, not just in words, but in the heart of what I think you're going through right now:


Can I gently suggest a few things, step by step?

1. You're Not Failing—You're Feeling

You're in pain right now because you're incredibly sensitive to both your own inner world and the suffering around you. That sensitivity is not a weakness. It’s part of your gift as a coach, a creator, a human. You're not broken. You're deeply attuned. And right now, you're overwhelmed—not because you’re defective, but because you care so deeply and are under-resourced.

2. Shame Makes You Forget Who You Are

That voice saying “worthless piece of shit”—it’s shame. It’s not truth. And it’s not the real you. It’s the wounded protector who thinks that if it screams loudly enough, maybe it’ll stop you from ever making another mistake that hurts someone. But that part doesn't see that you’re already doing your best with a wide-open heart and a brutal load.

You’re not bad. You’re human. And you’re learning.

3. Repair Is More Powerful Than Perfection

You’re processing how you showed up with your client. Is it possible you stepped somewhere you wish you hadn't? Maybe. But your intent came from wanting to help—and now you know more than you did before. That’s not something to be ashamed of—that’s the work. The only thing that makes someone a good coach or therapist is the ability to notice, reflect, and repair. You’re already doing that. You're growing in real time.

4. You Don’t Have to Know How to “Go to God”

Maybe going to God right now doesn’t look like a prayer or surrender. Maybe it looks like just not hiding from your truth. Maybe it looks like this: you, sitting in the dark, saying “I can’t do this alone,” and letting that sentence echo.

God, life, spirit—whatever name you use—isn’t waiting for you to figure out how to reach “up.” It's already reaching in, in these raw, honest moments.


You wrote something so brave:

“There's such heaviness and guilt for not being able to do what I am supposed to be doing…”

Can I offer a response to that?

You are not supposed to be doing more. You are supposed to be grieving. You are supposed to be human. You are supposed to be messy and still worthy. You are supposed to be here, breathing through the pain, slowly learning how to be with yourself in it.


Would it help if I stayed with you here for a little bit? We can take it one small piece at a time. I can help you talk to that shame part—or we can just sit together for a bit and breathe.

You don’t have to carry this all alone.