At the end of January 2016, I took a short detour from coaching. I flew with my parents and sister to Mumbai for two weeks of wedding shopping. It was the city where my mum was born, where we still had a lot of family, and where, in her mind, this moment had been quietly prepared for since I was born.
In the middle of building my coaching practice, I was also getting married that year. And while coaching felt like more than a business to me, it felt like a calling, I didn’t want to lose sight of one of the most important moments of my life.
Still, part of me was uneasy about stepping away. My calendar had been full. I had regular client calls and ongoing conversations with prospective clients. Beneath all of that sat an old insecurity I hadn’t fully owned before: what if they’re fine without me? What if, after a couple of weeks without sessions, they realise they don’t really need my coaching?
On one level, I knew that was unlikely. On another, the thought felt very real.
When I arrived in India, something unexpected happened. I slowed down. Not because I made a decision to, but because the pace of life pulled me there. The pressure I’d been carrying began to loosen, day by day. I stopped thinking about my coaching practice. I wasn’t planning content. I wasn’t checking in on clients. I wasn’t posting on Facebook. I wasn’t keeping one eye on my business while trying to live my life.
I was just there. And it felt incredibly good.
What I realised, without needing to articulate it at the time, was that I was building a life, not just a coaching practice. Coaching mattered deeply to me, but so did this trip and what it represented. I didn’t want to look back and realise I’d been half-present for it.
Yamini and her parents arrived in Mumbai around the same time. I’d been to the city many times before, especially in my early years, but this visit was different. This time, I was there with the woman I was going to marry. I got to introduce her to my Punjabi family in all their warmth, humour, volume, and generosity. Watching those worlds meet was a joy.
The two weeks passed quickly, but a few moments stayed with me.
One was trying on my wedding outfit. We visited several places before I tried on a traditional sherwani that felt right almost immediately. As soon as I put it on, my sister started crying. I remember wanting to tease her, but instead I just stood there, taking it in. She had taken two weeks out of her own life to be there with me. That mattered more than I realised at the time.
Another was travelling to Gujarat with Yamini and her parents to visit her grandparents, who were too old to attend the wedding. It also meant spending her birthday together. Life there moved at a very different pace. There were no showers, just a bucket of water. No air conditioning. We travelled by train and settled into village life.
I would never see her grandparents again. They passed a few years later. I’m quietly grateful I didn’t miss that visit.
Yamini would later tell me how much she appreciated how easily I adapted. I enjoyed the more polished side of cities like Mumbai and London, but I didn’t resist the simplicity of village life. I didn’t need things to be luxurious to enjoy them.
We also visited Dandi Beach, the destination of Mahatma Gandhi’s Salt March in 1930. It was a brief stop, but a reminder of the impact one person can have by standing for something they believe in with quiet persistence.
India taught me something else too: patience and trust. Things often looked like they weren’t going to work out. Plans were loose. Timelines flexible. People unhurried. And yet, somehow, everything came together. It was a lived reminder that not everything needs to be forced, chased, or controlled.
There was one evening in Mumbai that stays with me most clearly. Yamini and I shared a rare quiet moment together, sitting in a rickshaw, weaving through traffic on the way to the beach. It wasn’t a grand romantic gesture. Just the two of us, present with each other for a few hours. In a city where ambition and hustle are never far from the surface, that small moment stood out for me.
I was completely in love with the woman I was about to marry. And I was also beginning to see her more clearly. I once tried to explain to her that my good feelings weren’t coming from her. She laughed and told me that if I was trying to be romantic, I was failing.
I asked her to hear me out.
Every marriage has difficult moments, I said. If my sense of wellbeing came from you, then when things get hard, we’d be on shaky ground. But if I know my good feelings come from within, and I still choose you, then what we’re building is solid.
I’m not sure she agreed at the time. Or even fully understood what I meant. But that understanding would quietly serve us well in the years ahead.
When I returned home, something else became clear.
Nothing had fallen apart.
There were no angry emails. No lost clients. No dramatic drop in income. Enrolment still worked. Momentum hadn’t disappeared. In fact, I felt more energised and clearer than before.
What I began to see was that the way I had built my practice mattered. A coaching practice built on service and relationships is far more resilient than I’d realised. It doesn’t collapse when you step away for a couple of weeks. It reveals its strength.
My clients were interested in my life. They wanted to hear about the trip, the wedding preparations, the time with family. This was a relationship business. That made sense. I wanted the same with my coach.
That trip didn’t transform my business overnight. What it did was show me that I didn’t need to hustle relentlessly to be valuable, and that stepping away didn’t weaken what I’d built. It strengthened my trust in what I had already created.
Success wasn’t just about growing a coaching practice. It was about not missing what was right in front of me.
And that understanding would shape how I showed up next, not just privately, but publicly too.
Photo taken in January 2016!
With love and appreciation,
Ankush Jain
Coach and Author of Sweet Sharing – Rediscovering the REAL You