I’ve spent more than ten years coaching strength and conditioning, and my perspective shifted the moment I started working seriously as an online strength and conditioning coach. Early in my career, I believed good coaching required constant physical presence—hands-on cues, immediate adjustments, and energy in the room. What surprised me was how much sharper my coaching became once those crutches were gone and the program had to carry its own weight.
One of the first athletes who changed my thinking was a former competitive CrossFit athlete who’d stepped away from group training. He still loved hard sessions, but his recovery no longer matched his ambition. When we began working remotely, I noticed something he hadn’t: every tough session bled into the next. His notes were full of phrases like “felt flat” and “couldn’t get going,” even though his numbers looked respectable. We stripped back intensity, added more structure to his lighter days, and treated recovery like part of training instead of something that happened accidentally. Within weeks, his performance evened out, and the constant fatigue faded.
In my experience, online coaching exposes habits that in-person training often hides. When athletes train alone, there’s no adrenaline from the room, no coach watching every rep. That’s when patterns show up. I’ve seen lifters rush their setup because no one is there to slow them down, and I’ve seen others suddenly become more disciplined because they know they’ll have to explain how a session actually felt. Those details matter. They tell you whether a program fits someone’s life or just looks good on paper.
I’ve also had to fix plenty of mistakes made before athletes found their way to me. A common one is assuming online coaching means doing less thinking. I worked with a busy professional last fall who’d been handed a rigid weekly plan that ignored his travel schedule. Missed sessions piled up, frustration followed, and he started skipping training altogether. We rebuilt his approach so each workout had a clear purpose and could stand alone. He stopped stressing about what he “owed” the program and started training consistently again. Strength returned because the plan respected his reality.
Credentials come up often in conversations about coaching remotely, and I understand the concern. I’ve earned mine over the years, but what matters more is how that education shows up when things don’t go smoothly. Online coaching doesn’t allow for vague answers. If I adjust volume or pull back intensity, I need a reason that makes sense to the athlete. When that logic is missing, trust erodes quickly. When it’s clear, athletes buy in—even when the adjustment isn’t what they expected.
Another lesson that stuck with me came from coaching a recreational lifter who trained in a small home gym. His previous program was filled with specialty movements that didn’t match his equipment. He spent more time improvising than progressing. Once we simplified things and focused on repeatable main lifts, his confidence improved. He knew exactly what he was supposed to do each session, and that clarity translated into steady gains.
What I appreciate most about online coaching now is the honesty it demands. Athletes can’t rely on being pushed through a session by someone else, and coaches can’t rely on presence to cover weak planning. Communication becomes part of training, not an add-on. You learn quickly who’s paying attention and who’s just going through the motions.
After years of working this way, I don’t see online coaching as a lesser option. Done properly, it requires sharper programming, better listening, and more thoughtful adjustments. The progress may look quieter from the outside, but in my experience, it’s often more sustainable—and that’s what actually keeps people training for the long run.