Allison Yost, PhD

I’ve spent most of my life fascinated by a set of questions: What helps people thrive? What creates well-being? What makes a life feel meaningful, not just successful? And what can we actually do, in the ordinary structure of our days, to cultivate more of that?

Those questions are why I became a researcher and psychologist. I wanted better answers than the ones we usually get from tips, trends, and whatever happens to be popular at the moment. Human beings are complex. Our lives are complex. And I’ve always been drawn to research because, at its best, it gives us better clues about what actually helps people grow, change, lead, and live well.

Work became a natural place to study those questions because work takes up so much of adult life. It shapes our identity, our relationships, our energy, and our sense of contribution. For many people, work is where questions of meaning, ambition, burnout, and purpose all collide. That is what led me to pursue a PhD in industrial-organizational psychology: the study of people at work, and the conditions that help them perform, grow, and thrive.

But the questions were never only about work. They were about life.

That question first became real for me while trying to decide between graduate programs after college. It was a high-stakes decision, and I was completely stuck. On paper the choice looked obvious: one program was ranked at the very top of the country for what I thought I wanted to do, and the other was a more unconventional path without the same prestige. Everything external pointed one way, but something kept pulling me toward the other.

The next time I went home, my mom sat down with me at the kitchen table and spread out a series of index cards, one for each possible path. Together we mapped out not just the immediate choice, but what each path would open up, close down, and cost over time.

There was no judgment or pressure. But with the full landscape of the decision laid out in front of me, I could actually make sense of it. I realized I had been treating it as a binary choice when it really wasn’t.

Once I could see the whole picture, I realized I didn’t have to give up one option for the other: I could pursue what I valued in both, even though it would be an unconventional path. I knew it would raise some eyebrows, but I felt confident that it was more aligned with who I was and what I cared about, and remains one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. And as it turned out, this choice that looked riskier on paper is the one that ended up opening the most doors.

That experience stayed with me. What helps people see more clearly when the stakes are high? What creates the conditions for someone to hear what they already know?

Years later, those questions became personal. At one point in my career, I found myself in a chapter that should have fit better than it actually did. Meaningful work, significant responsibility, people I deeply respected. I wasn’t burned out, and I wasn’t miserable. But something wasn’t quite right, and over time I started to feel like the path I was on was taking me further from something important. The problem was that I couldn’t yet name what that something was.

Giving up a trajectory that offered stability, purpose, and real excitement for something completely unknown felt like an enormous risk. So I did what a lot of people do: I stayed busy and hoped the feeling would pass.

It didn’t.

Fortunately, I started working with a coach. Like many people facing a significant transition, I initially focused on what wasn’t working: where I felt drained, what felt misaligned, what I was ready to move away from. My coach didn’t offer answers. She helped me ask better questions.

Together we explored my strengths, values, and the experiences that consistently gave me energy and even joy. One of the most important discoveries was recognizing that many of my greatest strengths center on helping other people grow. Listening deeply. Seeing potential. Creating clarity. Helping people navigate complexity and change.

That insight led somewhere unexpected. The answer wasn’t to walk away from leadership or contribution. It was to find a way of contributing that fit better with who I am and what I love to do.

That realization helped me imagine a future that included more time with my family, more space for creativity, and a path toward work that made better use of my strengths. The answers didn’t all emerge at once, but I gained something just as valuable: direction. And I’ve learned that when we’re navigating uncertainty, direction and a willingness to experiment often matter more than certainty.

Through this, I learned that real security doesn’t come from a job, a title, or a system’s promise of stability. It comes from knowing you’re the one holding the pen, even when the circumstances aren’t fully yours to choose. The same decision can be made from a place of fear or a place of principle, and the difference shapes everything that follows. This distinction matters even more now, in a world where the old anchors (job, status, approval) are less reliable than they used to be.

Looking back, I can now see that coaching had given me the same gift I’d received around that kitchen table. It helped me see a larger landscape of possibilities. It helped me reconnect with what mattered most. It helped me move forward with more calm, clarity, and connection than I could have found on my own.

That’s the work I do now, through coaching.