Late at night, while pondering our place in this dynamic region’s hustle culture, it still has a way of making exhaustion feel aspirational. While city skylines still pulse and the WhatsApp notifications keep arriving, as if in answer to our career, friendship and relationship prayers, Instagram offers a steady stream of women in stealth wealth-style beige linen sets promising ‘alignment’, ‘abundance’ and ‘transformation’. Somewhere between our burnout and burning ambition, life coaching has found fertile ground across the Middle East.
Over the last decade, coaching has exploded into a global multi-billion-dollar industry, accelerated by social media and fuelled by a culture increasingly obsessed with self- optimisation. In cities like Dubai — where image, reinvention and relentless productivity often collide — the appeal is obvious. For those struggling to keep pace with the economic, social and political realities of life in the region, having a coach sounds polished, ambitious… Even luxurious. Yet behind the glossy branding lies an uncomfortable question: who exactly is qualified to guide people through the complexities of their lives?
“The coaching industry now is like the Wild West, and life coaching even more so,” says Dubai-based David Frost, chief strategy officer at IBEM Group, a leading strategy-execution firm operating from bases in London and the GCC. He has 20 years’ experience as one of the region’s best- known and most respected professional coaches, designing and delivering coaching academies as well as personally coaching high-profile executives and advising coaching vendor organisations. He’s clear in his belief in the “transformative power of effective coaching and the meaningful difference it can have for people, teams and organisations”, yet even with this confidence in the potential his role embodies, he has more than a few choice words about the proliferation of the life coaching industry in the region. “In a corporate environment there are some safeguards — usually coaches have to go through an HR manager, people with experience with coaching, someone who’s had exposure and a sense of what a good coach looks like. But in life coaching, the stakes are so much higher, and the level of capability in the market is, frankly, woeful.”
For some, life coaching can be transformative — a structured, empowering process that helps people navigate careers, relationships or periods of transition. For others, it is an unregulated industry vulnerable to hype, exploitation and dangerous overreach.
Geneva-based Lynda Heffernan believes that, when properly practiced, coaching has real value. “People typically seek coaching at moments of transition, stagnation or ambition,” she explains. “A career crossroads, a shifting sense of purpose, a desire to perform at a higher level, or simply the feeling that they are capable of more than their current circumstances reflect.” An executive coach, psychological coach and cognitive behavioural hypnotherapist with a foundation in psychology, leadership psychology, behavioural science, the neuroscience of stress and resilience and therapeutic practice, Heffernan isn’t short of qualifications. Her work, which she has practiced for global companies, is underpinned by formal accreditation across both coaching and therapy, including the International Coaching Federation’s Professional Certified Coach qualification, Graduate Membership of the British Psychological Society, and accreditation by the International Council of Integrative Psychotherapists.
Perhaps it’s her deep understanding of the possibilities and limitations of this field that makes her careful about the language surrounding the profession itself. “The idea of coaching someone on their life in all its complexity is, to my mind, a very ambitious claim,” she says. “The most effective practitioners I have encountered, whatever their title, tend to work within a clearly defined methodology and a well- understood scope of practice.”
The importance of that distinction cannot be overstated because, legally speaking, almost anyone can call themselves a life coach. Unlike psychologists, psychiatrists or licensed therapists, life coaches are not universally regulated. While respected accrediting organisations such as the International Coaching Federation (ICF), the European Mentoring and Coaching Council (EMCC) and the Association for Coaching exist, participation remains voluntary. “This creates a meaningful gap between practitioners at the highest levels of the profession and those operating with minimal training,” says Heffernan.
The rise of social media has widened that gap dramatically. Coaching is now marketed not only as a service, but as a lifestyle — one built on freedom, visibility and personal branding. On TikTok and Instagram, coaches promise six- figure businesses, spiritual breakthroughs and effortless confidence, often while simultaneously teaching followers how to become coaches themselves. “There is a discernible social media pipeline at work,” says Heffernan, “whereby individuals complete a short online course, cultivate a polished digital presence, and begin practising with limited experience behind them.”
For self-employed PR consultant Anna Ivanova-Galitsina, who briefly trained as a coach after years of receiving coaching and therapy, the appeal initially made perfect sense. “One of the reasons I took up life coaching was to have a vocation, a meaning in life rather than a simple job,” she says. “Helping people seemed like something full of purpose and meaning. At the same time, since I was spending quite a lot of money on therapy, I assumed that it’s quite easy to earn a good living by being one.” Like many people drawn to coaching, Ivanova-Galitsina was navigating a difficult period. During Covid, she got divorced, lost her job and abandoned plans to relocate to Paris.
“I was so shocked and disappointed with what was going on in my life that changing profession to one where I can help others seemed like a good idea.” But the reality of practising coaching proved more complicated than the aspirational rhetoric surrounding it.”
“When I decided to become a proper life coach I took two courses from online education company Udemy on life coaching and conflict resolution. I needed to practice and put in a certain amount of hours of free sessions before I could formally work and charge clients, so I began coaching acquaintances. I found that some of the stories my ‘practice’ clients were sharing and complaining about were quite boring,” she candidly admits of her early training sessions. “I wasn’t interested in listening to them at all. While I thought that working as a coach would be rewarding, it wasn’t always.”
Eventually, realising that coaching wasn’t a suitable career path for her, Ivanova-Galitsina abandoned the idea entirely. “While I was quite passionate about coaching while receiving the service and while learning, it still felt like labour when I practiced it.” And while Ivanova-Galitsina may have had the self-awareness to realise her own limitations as a life coach, in a field open to all-comers due to lack of regulation, there are plenty who don’t.
For some ex-coaching clients, the concerns run deeper. Holly McTaggart*, a Dubai-based finance professional originally from Canada, first turned to life coaching in 2006 while struggling personally. “I was very lost,” she recalls. Her first coach was an effective guide, and she was happy with the results. But later experiences left her increasingly uneasy about the industry’s lack of oversight.
“I realised that all of them were winging it,” she says. “I know life coaching isn’t regulated but I didn’t realise that the training was so basic until I enrolled in it myself.” McTaggart attended the first weekend of what she describes as “one of the most respected courses in Dubai”, costing between Dhs28,000 and Dhs40,000 to complete. What she witnessed alarmed her. “The instructors were doing so many things that I knew were unprofessional and dangerous. Crossing boundaries. Talking about past clients. Crying. Placing people in emotionally compromising situations.” The experience fundamentally altered her perception of coaching. “I just felt it was dangerous that these people were training others to be coaches.”
Her concerns echo those raised by Frost, who believes minimal training can create a false sense of expertise. “A little knowledge is dangerous — and that’s exactly what we see with a lot of coaching qualifications,” he says. “People go through an exam, and it’s like driving. You pass your test, but you don’t know how to drive yet.”
One of the industry’s most persistent criticisms is that coaching can drift into territory requiring clinical mental health expertise. Coaches often discuss trauma, anxiety, relationships and emotional regulation with clients despite lacking therapeutic qualifications. “This is perhaps the most important conversation the coaching industry needs to have,” says Heffernan. “A coach, regardless of their skill or experience, is not trained to identify or appropriately support clinical depression, trauma, anxiety disorders or other conditions that require professional mental health intervention.” The distinction becomes particularly blurred in the Middle East, where therapy is not always socially acceptable. “In a region where stigma around mental health remains significant in many communities, coaching can become an appealing alternative to therapy,” Heffernan explains. “Faster in its perceived results, more aspirational in its framing, and free of clinical connotation.”
Laura Everest, a Gallup-certified strengths-based leadership, performance, wellbeing and resilience coach practicing in Dubai, has over 30 years of experience in the sector. Having worked with global companies including Zurich and Abbott, as well as regional organisations such as Dubai One, she agrees that ethical boundaries are critical. “Coaching can be incredibly valuable for growth, resilience, confidence and performance,” she says, “but it is not therapy and shouldn’t replace professional mental health support where that is needed. Good coaches should recognise when someone may need a different level of support beyond coaching.”
So what makes a good coach? Everest says the answer isn’t always simple: “Qualifications matter but so do maturity, self-awareness, credibility and real experience. People need a coach who can genuinely listen, hold difficult conversations well and challenge thinking constructively. Good coaching is rarely about giving advice — it’s about helping people gain perspective, recognise patterns and arrive at better decisions for themselves. Coaches need the judgement to handle difficult conversations responsibly and understand the boundaries of their expertise.”
McTaggart experienced coaches who didn’t understand those boundaries, and now believes that many of the struggles she sought coaching for stemmed from undiagnosed ADHD and depression. “I feel disappointed that people who I thought knew what they were doing really didn’t, and that I was in their hands. There’s a huge amount of trust placed in coaches, and people are vulnerable. I see a lot of trauma coaches or neuro- linguistic programming coaches around and I just shudder at the thought of these people working though trauma with others. Once I went to a psychiatrist and got meds, I realised that the ADHD was most of my issue,” she says. Looking back, she wishes she had pursued medical help sooner. Yet even critics of the industry are reluctant to dismiss coaching entirely, with most acknowledging that good coaches do exist and can offer meaningful support. “I’ve had another life coach in Dubai who helped me immensely,” says McTaggart.
Similarly, events consultant Zainab Shah* encountered coaches through her work representing thought leaders and entrepreneurs in the UAE. Some impressed her, but others raised concerns almost immediately. “Some people were genuinely qualified, had structure, had a clear framework,” she says. “But then there were others who felt like they had gone through something in life and then decided to turn that into a coaching offering. I’ve also seen very quick transitions, people going from being influencers or content creators to suddenly becoming life coaches. Another thing was how quickly some people positioned themselves as experts. In most industries, credibility takes years to build. Here, it sometimes felt like that process was very fast, without the same level of depth or rigour. I’m sure there are credible practitioners out there, I just didn’t work closely with many of them.”
What troubled her most was the ambiguity of coaching’s jargon. “The language was very broad — things like ‘transform your life’ or ‘step into your highest self’. It sounds appealing, but at the same time, it’s quite vague.” She struggled with the ethics of promoting certain practitioners. “People usually seek out life coaches when they’re in a vulnerable place, and that comes with a responsibility,” she says. “I wasn’t always confident that responsibility was being handled in the right way.”
The commercialisation of vulnerability is certainly a recurring criticism. Frost describes parts of the industry as populated by “the vulture squad”, adding: “Most people who seek out some kind of help do so for a personally profound reason.” He is particularly concerned by coaches selling expensive programmes while lacking the experience to safely support vulnerable clients. “Life coaches generally don’t look at a human being, they look at a paycheck,” he says bluntly. “Nine times out of 10, people just waste some money and don’t get any benefit — but it’s that one out of 10 where it can lead to a very, very serious place.”
Still, coaching’s popularity reveals something deeper than opportunism alone, indicating widespread burnout, loneliness and dissatisfaction with modern life. “Many people are highly capable externally, but internally they’re exhausted, overthinking or running on empty,” says Everest. “Sometimes people want support navigating change, sometimes clarity, and increasingly I think people are looking for someone who can help them slow their thinking enough to see situations more clearly.”
And in transient, high-pressure cities like Dubai, where careers and identities are often precarious, many people are searching for guidance wherever they can find it. “Big urban centres like Dubai are a melting pot,” says Frost. “When you throw in things like the visa situation — if people lose their job, they lose their right to be here — that breeds high pressure to perform.” Against that backdrop, coaching offers certainty, structure and the promise of reinvention. Sometimes that promise helps, but sometimes it obscures more serious problems.
For Heffernan, the solution is not dismissing coaching outright, but demanding higher standards and clearer boundaries. “When practised with integrity, proper accreditation and a clearly defined methodology, coaching can be a genuinely powerful catalyst for change,” she says. Clients, she believes, should ask hard questions: What qualifications does the coach have? What ethical framework do they follow? Do they recognise the limits of their expertise? Are they willing to refer clients elsewhere if necessary? Perhaps most importantly, she questions whether the term ‘life coach’ itself has become too broad to mean very much at all.
“The finest coaches, whatever their title, do not claim to change your life,” she says. “They create the conditions in which you are able to change it yourself.” And in a culture obsessed with becoming our ‘best selves’, that distinction is crucial.
*name has been changed.
Featured image photographed by Federica Putelli for MOJEH 101
Originally published in the June 2026 issue of MOJEH Magazine. Subscribe here
