I’ve been working as a strength and conditioning coach for a little over a decade, long enough to remember when “online coaching” was treated like a watered-down version of real training. Back then, I was skeptical myself. That changed after I started coaching athletes remotely and, later, training under an online strength and conditioning coach model that forced me to rethink how results actually get built when you’re not standing five feet from someone in a gym.
The first real test came a few years ago with a former college soccer player who’d moved for work. She had access to a small commercial gym and exactly three evenings a week to train. In person, I would’ve adjusted things on the fly. Online, I had to anticipate problems before they happened. I learned quickly that vague programming doesn’t survive the real world. If a warm-up wasn’t clearly explained, it got skipped. If a progression didn’t make sense, it stalled. That experience reshaped how I coach, even with people I now see face-to-face.
One thing people outside the field often underestimate is how much communication replaces proximity. I spend more time reviewing training logs, short form-check videos, and post-session notes than I ever did shouting cues across a weight room. I’ve caught technique breakdowns because someone mentioned their left glute “never feels awake,” and I’ve adjusted entire weeks of training because recovery was clearly lagging, even though the numbers looked fine on paper. Those details don’t show up unless you’ve built systems that encourage honesty instead of compliance.
I’ve also seen common mistakes repeated by athletes jumping into online coaching without vetting who they’re working with. A big one is mistaking complexity for quality. I’ve cleaned up programs that looked impressive on a screen but ignored the equipment someone actually owned. One client last winter was given advanced barbell variations despite training in a garage with mismatched plates and no spotter. We stripped things back, rebuilt his main lifts with simpler progressions, and his consistency improved almost immediately. Results followed because the plan finally fit his reality.
Credentials matter here, but not in the way most people think. I hold formal certifications and have coached long enough to know they’re only useful if they change how you problem-solve. Online coaching exposes weak thinking fast. You can’t rely on charisma or in-person energy. Your progressions, deloads, and regressions have to make sense on their own. If they don’t, the athlete stalls and you hear about it within a week.
Another lesson that stuck with me came from working with a recreational lifter who had trained for years without injury—until remote work left him sitting ten hours a day. His numbers didn’t fall off immediately, but his tolerance did. An online setup forced me to look beyond sets and reps and pay attention to lifestyle shifts. We adjusted volume, added targeted prep work, and pulled back on max-effort days for a cycle. He didn’t lose strength, and more importantly, he stopped flirting with chronic pain. That kind of adjustment doesn’t come from templates; it comes from pattern recognition built over time.
If there’s one advantage online coaching has sharpened for me, it’s accountability through clarity. Athletes know exactly what’s expected. There’s less room for guessing and more room for reflection. I’ve found that people who succeed in this setup aren’t necessarily the most motivated; they’re the ones willing to communicate when something feels off instead of pushing blindly.
After years on both sides of the screen, I don’t see online coaching as a compromise anymore. Done well, it’s a demanding format that exposes sloppy thinking and rewards thoughtful planning. For athletes and coaches alike, that pressure can be a good thing—it forces you to focus on what actually drives progress, not what merely looks impressive.