At eleven, I was walking myself to the supermarket with whatever coins my mum could spare, working out what combination of the reduced section could feed four of us. Usually it was soup.
I grew up poor. What made it hard wasn't the scarcity. It was the volatility. The same request on a Tuesday and a Wednesday could get two completely different answers.
I learned, fairly quickly, to stop asking.
What I came out of that childhood with was an instinct that's served me well and cost me at the same time: the belief that the safest thing in the world is to not need anyone. I built my way out alone. Grades. Friendships. University. A Big 4 accounting qualification I hated. M&A consulting, which I enjoyed more. Property. Investments.
I went from £0 to financially independent in six years. I stopped working actively at thirty-four. It wasn't a flex. It was the answer to a question I'd been carrying since I was eleven:
Can I make sure I never have to feel like that again?
The part nobody warned me about was what came after. Retiring at thirty-four does not fix what you think it'll fix. What it gives you is space, which turns out to be the entire point. The existential reckoning that follows is half of what I now teach.
I coach because the boy who scoured the reduced section, who walked himself to school, who learned not to ask for things, does not want anyone else to have to figure it out the same way.