The Ecological Coach’s Manifesto
A New Way to Lead, Learn, and Let Go
A Note Before We Begin
This one’s longer. Not just in length—but in breath.
It’s something closer to a manifesto than a post.
A reflection, a rhythm, a way of laying bare what coaching means to me right now.
I’m still figuring out how to say all of this. Still shaping the language, still exploring the form.
This piece is part of that exploration—and part of the joy I find in trying new ways to connect with you.
The tone is a little different.
The words stretch out sometimes.
But the heart? It hasn’t changed.
This is still about the athlete.
Still about values.
Still about the beautiful mess of learning and the quiet power of letting go.
Thanks for being here. Thanks for reading.
Thanks for walking this path with me.
The Edge of the Old World
If you’ve ever stood in a gym, whistle in hand, watching a line of athletes wait their turn in a drill you designed—and quietly wondered,
“Is this really how it’s supposed to feel?”
You’re not alone.
I was there, too.
Measuring cones. Chasing clean reps. Explaining movements with clinical precision.
But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like coaching.
It felt more like managing a machine—one that kept breaking down.
Not because anyone was lazy. Not because we didn’t care.
But because the design was off. Because we were following a script that forgot the soul of the game.
So I started asking questions. Not just about the drills. About the whole system.
What if drills aren’t the answer?
What if skills aren’t things we install, but things that emerge?
What if players don’t need to be corrected so much as given space to discover?
That line of questioning took me somewhere unexpected.
It didn’t give me a checklist.
But it gave me guideposts:
Ecological Dynamics. The Constraints-Led Approach. ACT. MI. And a simple rhythm I now call NAC—Notice, Adapt, Commit.
These aren’t tricks. They’re not rebranded “best practices.”
They’re a way to create something better—
Not just better volleyball,
but better athletes, better humans,
and maybe, just maybe, a better version of ourselves as coaches.
This isn’t a manifesto in the storm-the-castle sense (though if you picture a rebel coach raising a dry-erase board like a flag, I won’t stop you).
It’s something quieter. A call to curiosity.
A soft rebellion.
A way to let go of what’s not working and step into something deeper.
Because every coach who truly pays attention reaches this point eventually:
Keep polishing the same drills…
or explore the wild, beautiful terrain of how learning actually happens.
If you’re ready to try a different way—one that honors the athlete, respects the mess, and trusts the process—
You’re not alone.
Welcome to the edge of the old world.
Let’s begin.
We Begin With the Athlete
For a long time, I thought my job was to design the perfect drill. Something clean. Something structured. Something that would “teach the skill.”
If the passing was bad, we’d do passing drills. If hitting looked off, we’d break down the approach. Drill, fix, repeat. That was the rhythm of “good coaching,” or so I believed.
But here’s the thing: the best players I’ve ever coached—the ones who adjusted in real time, who solved strange problems on strange balls, who made magic in motion—didn’t always shine in drills. And the ones who looked flawless in drills? Too often, they disappeared when the whistle blew for 6v6.
That disconnect broke something open in me.
I began to see what we were really rewarding: obedience over awareness. Compliance over creativity. The ability to replicate, not the courage to explore.
Skills Don’t Live in Isolation
Skills aren’t prepackaged instructions. They aren’t ingredients to be measured and stirred.
They’re living, breathing responses—shaped by the moment, the space, the tension in the air.
A good serve receive isn’t a still frame. It’s the body reading spin, the feet adjusting to chaos, the platform rising at the right time—not to be “correct,” but to connect.
A dig is more than form. It’s feel.
A set is more than symmetry. It’s story.
A swing is more than mechanics. It’s a choice made in the blur.
And all of it matters most when the game is alive around it.
A Functional Relationship, Not a Stored Technique
Ecological Dynamics gave me a new lens—one that sees learning not as something we inject into athletes, but as something that emerges between athlete and environment.
It’s not “I know how to hit.”
It’s “I can attune. I can adjust. I can act with purpose in a living system.”
That changes how we train.
We don’t install. We invite.
We don’t repeat perfection. We design for emergence.
We create environments that ask better questions—and trust athletes to find honest answers.
That means fewer sterile, isolated drills… and more messy, variable, gloriously imperfect reps.
Reps where the game speaks. Where the body listens. Where the learning is real.
Learning That Sticks Looks Different
When a player adjusts their approach angle based on the subtle movement of a block—that’s learning.
When they serve short because they noticed the libero camping deep—that’s learning.
When they fake a swing to draw a commit and tip behind the setter—that’s learning.
None of that comes from rote instruction. It comes from experience—rich, contextual, messy, meaningful experience.
Sometimes it looks like chaos. Sometimes it looks like failure. But look closely, and you’ll see a brain and body learning to dance with the game.
That’s not sloppiness.
That’s skill under construction.
This Is Where the Shift Begins
If we want adaptable, aware, game-ready athletes, we have to stop worshiping the clean rep and start honoring the real rep.
We must care less about what a rep looks like, and more about what it demands of the athlete’s attention.
Because volleyball doesn’t happen in isolation.
And neither should learning.
So we begin—not with the drill.
But with the athlete.
We Design for Discovery, Not Obedience
There was a moment—quiet, almost forgettable—when everything shifted.
I stopped asking, “How do I get them to do it right?”
And started asking, “How do I help them figure it out?”
That was the beginning of the unraveling.
The old way treats athletes like machines: input the movement, execute the output. Program the pattern. Repeat until perfected.
In that world, the coach is a technician. The athlete? A processor.
A robot with court shoes and a water bottle.
But volleyball doesn’t live in the clean lines of diagrams.
It lives in the blur.
The Game Changes. So Should the Training.
No two plays are the same.
The set drops short. The serve breaks late. The block hesitates. The defense shifts, just enough to change everything.
The moment moves.
And the athlete must move with it.
Obedience doesn’t prepare them for that.
Adaptability does.
We don’t need players who memorize.
We need players who notice. Who solve. Who create—while moving, while breathing, while responding to a world that doesn’t wait.
Which means our job isn’t to give them the answer.
It’s to build the space where the answer might emerge.
Enter the Constraints-Led Approach
The Constraints-Led Approach (CLA) changed everything for me.
It didn’t just give me new activities—it gave me a new role:
Not drill master.
Not correction machine.
But designer of discovery.
Instead of dictating movements, we shape the conditions.
We craft the problem.
We set the scene. And then we watch what unfolds.
CLA reminds us that behavior is born from interaction:
Individual (size, strength, confidence, fatigue)
Task (rules, goals, consequences)
Environment (space, tempo, pressure—even us)
When we change these, we don’t control athletes.
We invite them to explore.
Coaching as Curiosity, Not Control
That shift changed the feel of my gym.
I stopped showing them the way. I started lighting the edges of the map.
The constraint becomes the teacher.
It directs attention. Shapes exploration. Sets the stage—but never writes the script.
This isn’t punishment. It’s possibility.
And the result?
Reps that stick. Skills that flex.
Athletes who aren’t just repeating—they’re refining.
Well designed constraints aren’t tweaks.
They’re disruptions. They challenge the athlete to see differently, move differently, think differently.
Not Every Rep Is Created Equal
We’ve been taught to chase reps.
But what we should be chasing is richness.
A rep is only valuable if it feels like the game.
If it carries information.
If it matters.
Otherwise? You’re rehearsing movements in a vacuum—and hoping they somehow transfer.
Discovery Is Sticky. Obedience Is Fragile.
An athlete who discovers a solution can recreate it. Adapt it. Trust it.
An athlete who just memorizes? They break the moment the picture changes.
And in volleyball, the picture always changes.
So we don’t design for obedience.
We design for discovery.
Notice, Adapt, Commit
Some tools don’t arrive with fanfare.
They enter quietly—like breath. Like rhythm. Like something that was always there, waiting to be named.
NAC was that for me.
Notice. Adapt. Commit.
Three simple words that reshaped how I coach, how I listen, how I respond.
What began as a way to self-regulate—to stay connected to my values instead of my ego—has become something much larger.
It’s a way of moving through the world.
It’s how I connect with my athletes.
And more and more, it’s how we shape our collective learning—together.
NAC isn’t just a self-check for moments of struggle.
It’s a planning rhythm.
A way to co-evolve with the game.
A way for individuals and teams to stay present, adjust in real time, and act with intention—not just reaction.
NAC for Coaches: Grounding in the Storm
Before the feedback.
Before the correction.
Before the sigh or the whistle or the urge to take over—
I pause to Notice: What’s happening in me? In them? In this space?
I Adapt: Do I need to change the constraint? The tone? The pace?
I Commit: Who do I want to be right now? A mirror or a megaphone? A guide or a guardrail?
This rhythm helps me lead with steadiness instead of control.
Presence instead of panic.
NAC in Conversation: A Language of Ownership
With athletes, NAC becomes a shared language. A way of asking questions that pull them deeper into their own learning.
Notice → “What did you see just before you made that play?”
Adapt → “What might you try differently next time?”
Commit → “What do you want to stay connected to this next rep?”
It’s not about feeding them the right answer.
It’s about guiding their attention toward what matters.
Noticing. Adjusting. Choosing.
That’s learning in motion.
And when athletes speak this language with each other—mid-rally, mid-huddle, mid-mistake—you know something real is taking root.
NAC as a Team Rhythm
NAC isn’t just for moments of reflection.
It’s a real-time rhythm for teams.
Notice the patterns in your opponent. The space in the system. The emotional shifts in your group.
Adapt your coverage, your tempo, your talk.
Commit to the game plan—or to the decision to change it.
It’s not about being rigid. It’s about being responsive.
Together. In flow.
A system that adjusts because it's attuned.
This is how teams evolve—not just from set to set, but from play to play.
Skill Follows Attention. Mastery Follows Meaning.
We want athletes to grow. But growth doesn’t come from hammering in techniques.
It comes from building awareness. From practicing choice.
From aligning action with intention, again and again.
NAC gives us a way to coach that alignment.
And the more we model it, the more it becomes the heartbeat of our gym.
A culture where correction isn’t criticism.
Where mistakes are invitations.
Where learning is not something to survive—but something to pursue.
NAC is not a slogan. It’s a compass.
And when we carry it in our questions, our presence, and our design—
It becomes something the athletes carry, too.
On the court. In the moment. In their lives beyond the game.
We Coach the Mind Without Controlling It
There’s a quiet myth that floats through locker rooms and huddles—
That mental toughness means silence.
No fear. No doubt. No struggle.
Just grit your teeth and get over it.
But the mind isn’t something to conquer.
It’s something to carry.
And when we try to shut it down—when we force focus, suppress nerves, or label emotion as weakness—we often make things worse.
This is where ACT—Acceptance and Commitment Training—shows up.
Not to banish discomfort, but to teach us how to move with it.
ACT Isn’t About “Staying Positive”
Volleyball is messy. So are emotions.
Athletes get anxious. Frustrated. Embarrassed.
They second-guess. They overthink. They freeze.
ACT doesn’t ask us to “think happy thoughts.”
It doesn’t try to sweep the mess away.
It acknowledges the full storm of experience—and then helps us ask:
Can you carry this, and still choose how to move?
This is gold in a timeout. In a slump. At match point.
When everything is swirling, ACT helps you anchor.
Six Core Ideas, One Simple Aim
You don’t need a PhD to use ACT.
At its core, it helps us teach this:
Notice what’s here.
Make space for it.
Act in a way that honors who you want to be.
That means:
Noticing the fear, the tension, the inner noise.
Accepting it—not as a problem, but as part of the moment.
Choosing to act with intention anyway.
Not in spite of what they feel.
But alongside it.
What It Sounds Like in the Gym
Instead of:
“Don’t be nervous.”
You say:
“It makes sense to feel that. Can you carry the nerves with you and still swing hard?”
Instead of:
“Get that mistake out of your head.”
You ask:
“Even with that miss lingering, what do you want to move toward this next point?”
We’re not erasing emotion.
We’re de-fusing from it.
We’re helping athletes create space between what they feel… and what they choose.
That’s where the power lives.
ACT + NAC: The Two Lenses
If this ACT flow sounds like NAC—Notice, Adapt, Commit—you’re not wrong.
They aren’t competing tools. They’re complementary ones.
NAC gives us the rhythm.
ACT gives us the depth.
Together, they help us coach both the behavior we can see—and the inner world we usually can’t.
Notice what’s present: emotions, thoughts, distractions.
Adapt by accepting what can’t be controlled and adjusting what can.
Commit to an action grounded in purpose, not panic.
When athletes learn this loop, they don’t just perform better.
They live better.
They handle the weight without shutting down.
They stay in motion—even with fear in the passenger seat.
You Don’t Need to Fix the Feeling
Here’s one of the greatest gifts ACT gives us as coaches:
You don’t have to fix how your athletes feel.
You don’t have to make them fearless.
You don’t have to delete their doubt.
You don’t have to summon their confidence with a speech.
You just have to help them move with what’s real.
ACT teaches us that clarity and discomfort can coexist.
That commitment can survive chaos.
That presence is more powerful than perfection.
And when athletes learn that—really learn it—
They stop fighting themselves.
And they start showing up anyway.
We Ask, Not Tell
If you've ever found yourself repeating the same cue over and over—
“Stay low.”
“Call the ball.”
“Finish high.”
—you’re not alone.
And if you’ve watched those words bounce off like water on a rain jacket,
you’re definitely not alone.
Because telling isn’t always teaching.
And volume doesn’t guarantee value.
There’s a point where we all start to wonder:
Is it that they aren’t listening?
Or is it that we’re not reaching?
That question brought me to Motivational Interviewing (MI)—
a quiet revolution in how we speak with athletes.
Not to fill them up with our answers…
but to help them find their own.
What If We Didn’t Try to Convince Them?
MI flips the usual coaching script.
It asks:
What if the goal isn’t to push players toward motivation…
but to pull it out of them?
What if the most powerful change comes from within—not from the outside voice yelling the loudest?
Motivational Interviewing doesn’t mean withholding feedback.
It doesn’t mean staying silent.
It means creating space.
It means making room for ownership.
Because change sticks best when it feels like theirs.
MI is built on three core ideas:
Collaboration over confrontation.
(We’re on the same team—not on opposite ends of a correction.)Evocation over education.
(We draw it out instead of drill it in.)Autonomy over authority.
(We guide, but don’t control.)
If that sounds familiar, it’s because it rhymes with the ecological world.
If learning emerges from interaction,
then so does motivation.
What It Sounds Like in Practice
Instead of:
“You need to be louder on defense.”
Try:
“What changes when your team is talking—versus when it’s silent?”
Instead of:
“You have to go for the ball!”
Try:
“What helps you decide to pursue a tough ball?”
These aren’t rhetorical tricks.
They’re invitations.
They honor the athlete’s experience.
They make the athlete the author of their own response.
And when you do this consistently, something shifts.
The gym starts to feel less like a lecture hall and more like a workshop.
Less about right answers. More about real ones.
A Different Kind of Toolbox
MI doesn’t hand you scripts.
It offers approaches:
Open-ended questions that open the mind.
Affirmations that reinforce effort, not just outcome.
Reflections that say “I hear you,” without needing to solve.
Summaries that pull threads together and gently guide the next step.
And it’s not always deep.
Sometimes, a single sentence in transition—while resetting a drill or tossing a ball—sparks a completely different mindset.
Not because you said something new.
But because you made space for them to say something true.
From Compliance to Commitment
When athletes feel seen, they lean in.
When they’re asked what they want, they listen harder to themselves.
When they articulate their own values,
they don’t just comply—they commit.
And that’s what we’re really after.
Not robotic action.
But meaningful ownership.
It’s not about saying less.
It’s about saying less so they can say more.
MI + NAC + ACT = A Coaching Trifecta
MI fits hand-in-glove with the other tools we’ve explored:
NAC guides attention and action.
ACT navigates emotion and intention.
MI gives us the language to bring it all together.
These three aren’t separate methods.
They’re a framework for how we show up in the gym.
How we connect. How we guide.
How we build athletes who know how to think, feel, and choose in the middle of the storm.
So we ask.
Not because we don’t know.
But because we believe they can.
We ask because learning isn’t given—it’s grown.
Because change doesn’t need force—it needs space.
And because the best answers are the ones an athlete carries into the match…
not the ones we shouted into their backs during warm-up.
We Are the Environment Too
You can spend hours crafting the perfect constraint.
You can diagram every drill, set the ideal scoring rules, adjust every variable to nudge learning in the right direction.
But if your presence carries tension, control, urgency, or fear…
that becomes the loudest constraint of all.
You are not invisible.
You are not neutral.
You are part of the environment—maybe the most powerful part of all.
Your posture.
Your timing.
Your tone.
Your sighs, your silences, your smile after the shank.
They all shape the learning space more than any cone, line, or rule.
We’re not architects standing outside the system.
We’re in it.
Walking through it.
Changing it—whether we mean to or not.
Athletes Don’t Just Learn What You Say
They learn how you say it.
They learn when you say it.
They learn what you do after the error.
They learn how you react when it’s chaotic, when it’s hard, when they’re not okay.
When a coach tightens up, players brace.
When a coach breathes, players loosen.
This doesn’t mean we fake calm.
It means we practice calm.
It means we notice what we bring into the gym—so we don’t unknowingly build tension into every drill.
It means recognizing that we carry a kind of emotional gravity.
And the team feels it—whether we do or not.
Becoming a Non-Anxious Presence
There’s a phrase from leadership theory that has stuck with me:
The non-anxious presence.
Not passive. Not detached.
But grounded.
A person who can hold discomfort—without feeding it.
The coach who can stay steady when the wheels come off.
Who doesn’t shrink when things go sideways.
Who doesn’t need to fix everything, but isn’t afraid to feel it with the team.
That’s what athletes need.
Not a savior.
A signal.
A calm, clear rhythm in the storm.
But let’s be honest—
That doesn’t just happen.
It takes time. It takes reps. It takes NAC:
Notice your own pulse, your own story, your own rising heat.
Adapt your volume, your presence, your pacing.
Commit to the kind of coach you want to be—especially when it would be easier to be something else.
We can’t always control what happens.
But we can always choose how we show up for it.
Modeling > Messaging
The most powerful coaching doesn’t happen when we’re talking.
It happens when we’re being.
You want your team to take ownership? Own your moments.
You want them to handle mistakes with grace? Handle yours with grace.
You want them to stay connected under pressure? Let them feel your calm, not your chaos.
Instruction is helpful.
Modeling is unforgettable.
Because athletes don’t just follow your drills.
They mirror your energy.
Your patterns become their permission.
You are a constraint.
But you get to choose:
Will your presence narrow the space—or expand it?
You’re Not the Star—But You Are the Weather
You don’t need all the answers.
You don’t need to fix every problem or fill every silence.
But you do need to remember this:
Your presence sets the temperature.
In an ecological gym, the game teaches.
But the coach sets the climate.
And when that climate is rich with curiosity…
when it’s stable, steady, and safe…
when it makes space for failure, freedom, and joy…
Learning doesn’t just happen.
It blooms.
So be the weather system your players can grow inside.
Not the storm they have to brace for.
But the sky that says,
You are safe here. You can try. You can feel. You can fly.
This Is Not Just a Method. It’s a Movement.
By now, maybe you’ve felt it—
This isn’t just a stack of coaching strategies.
It’s not a clever checklist.
It’s not another new name for the same old drills.
This is a different way of seeing.
Of being.
Of believing in what coaching can feel like again.
Ecological coaching isn’t a trend.
It’s a response.
A rebellion—soft, steady, and deeply human.
It rises from the quiet voice in every coach who’s ever thought,
“This can’t be all there is.”
It pushes back against the hollow parts of sport:
The obsession with control.
The fear of imperfection.
The shiny veneer of compliance.
The tight grip that squeezes the joy out of the game.
This manifesto isn’t about being right.
It’s about being real.
It’s about meeting the wild, layered beauty of sport with humility, curiosity, and care.
It’s about trading certainty for presence.
Control for connection.
Technique for trust.
We’re not here to install perfect movements.
We’re here to make room for messy, meaningful ones.
We’re not here to fix the athlete.
We’re here to see them.
We’re not here to build obedience.
We’re here to grow ownership.
And we’re not here to prove ourselves.
We’re here to join them.
You’re Not Alone
If you’ve ever felt out of place in a coaching clinic—
If you’ve sat through PowerPoints on angles and vectors while your gut whispered,
“But what about the kid in front of me?”
If you’ve watched line drills and thought,
“There has to be a better way…”
You’re not crazy.
You’re not wrong.
You’re not the only one.
There’s a movement quietly building.
Coaches stepping off the old path—not because it was all bad,
but because they want more.
Coaches writing a new script that sounds more like:
“Let’s see what emerges.”
“What did you notice?”
“Try it your way.”
“Let’s mess with this.”
They are choosing:
Autonomy over authority.
Discovery over direction.
Intention over imitation.
Relationship over routine.
They’re not waiting for permission.
They’re already building gyms where athletes feel safe to fail,
free to play,
and supported to grow into something stronger than we could’ve scripted.
The Invitation
This isn’t an ultimatum.
This isn’t a demand to become someone new overnight.
It’s a nudge.
A whisper.
A welcome.
Start small. Go deep.
Try one new constraint that invites adaptation.
Ask one better question.
Leave one breath of silence before you fill it with instruction.
Let the game speak a little more.
Let the athlete solve a little more.
Let go… just enough to let learning bloom.
And watch what grows.
You don’t have to be perfect.
You just have to be present.
You don’t need all the answers.
Just the courage to stay curious.
You don’t need to lead like the coaches before you.
You can lead like you—
honest, grounded, joyful.
Let this be the beginning—
Not of a new method,
but of a new kind of coach.
A coach who listens more than they lecture.
Who shapes more than they show.
Who trusts the athlete, trusts the game,
and trusts themselves to let go.
This isn’t a method.
It’s a mindset.
This isn’t a trend.
It’s a movement.
And you, my friend—
You’re already part of it.
Let Go. Let Learn.
This manifesto may be full of frameworks and ideas, but more than anything, it’s a reminder: you don’t need to coach like anyone else. You don’t need to control every variable. You don’t need to have it all figured out.
You just need to care.
You need to notice what’s in front of you. Adapt when the moment asks. Commit to the kind of coach you want to be.
Not the loudest. Not the strictest. Not the one with the clipboard full of reps.
The one who sees. The one who listens. The one who lets the learning breathe.
Your presence is enough. Your curiosity is a tool. Your values are your compass.
Let the athletes stumble. Let them surprise you. Let them lead the way sometimes. You might just find that the more you release control, the more they rise.
There is no perfect formula. There is no finish line. But there is a path—and it’s one we’re walking together.
One rally at a time. One messy, joyful, meaningful moment at a time.
Let go. Let learn.
Let this be the kind of coaching you’ve always hoped was possible—for them.
This was a long but worthwhile read. Thanks for sharing.
I love your acronym, NAC. I might just steal that and use it :-)
I'm glad I heard you on the Volleypodd Loren. I have a military and LE background. When we trained we did somthing called RBTs (Reality Based Training). We also had a saying , train how we fight. What you said in the interview sounded so similar that it blew my mind why I didn't do "ECOD". Or train how we play volleyball.
I've only been coaching for the past 3 years and I questioned the drills at first but it was the only thing I knew and learned from other coaches.
I'm starting to implement ECOD at the 11u level and I'm hopeful to compare results this season from last season.