Latest / Starting Over: Stories of Reinvention, Hope & Second Chances / The Quiet Magic of Passing the Torch: Finding Purpose in Mentoring | Starting Over
Transcript
- There is a specific kind of loneliness that comes with being the only one who knows how to fix the sink, answer the difficult email, or navigate the silence after a loss. But there is an even deeper ache for the ones watching you from the sidelines, waiting for permission to begin. I want you to close your eyes for just a moment and picture the last time someone asked you for advice. Not a casual, 'what should I have for lunch?' kind of question. I mean the heavy, trembling inquiry. The one where they look at you like you hold the map to a territory they are terrified to enter alone. Maybe it’s a younger colleague staring down a project deadline that feels impossible. Maybe it’s a niece or nephew asking how you stayed calm when everything fell apart. Or maybe it’s just a friend who sees something in you that you haven’t fully claimed for yourself yet. Let’s get real for a second. How did that feel? For many of us, especially women who have spent years climbing ladders we weren’t sure we wanted to be on, that moment of being positioned as the 'expert' or the 'anchor' can feel incredibly heavy. We carry the weight of our own scars, our own late-night doubts, and our own hard-won lessons. And suddenly, someone is looking at those scars as if they are badges of honor. As if they are proof that survival is possible. It’s flattering, sure. But it’s also exhausting. Because part of you wonders if you’re qualified to guide them. Part of you worries that if you slip up, if you give the wrong word of wisdom, you’ll shatter their illusion of safety. You start holding back pieces of your truth because you think you need to be perfect to be useful. But here is the secret that took me decades to learn: you do not need to be perfect to be a mentor. You just need to be present. I remember a few years ago, I was working with a young woman named Elena. She was brilliant, sharp, and possessed this terrifying energy that reminded me so much of myself at twenty-five. She was burning the candle at both ends and the middle, convinced that if she stopped moving for even a second, she would disappear. I watched her panic over minor setbacks, treating every small error as a character flaw rather than a data point. One evening, after we’d wrapped up a particularly brutal strategy session, she looked at me and said, 'How do you stop caring so much? It seems like you just let things go.' I almost laughed. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t let things go; I learned what was worth holding onto and what was just noise. But I saw the fear in her eyes. She wasn’t asking about strategy. She was asking about peace. In that moment, I realized that mentoring isn’t about transferring knowledge like passing a baton in a relay race. It’s about offering a mirror. When I shared my own history of burnout, of thinking that exhaustion was a virtue, Elena didn’t just hear my story. She saw herself in it. And that reflection allowed her to breathe. She realized that her intensity wasn’t a defect; it was fuel, but it needed direction. By sharing my own missteps, I gave her permission to be imperfect. And in that imperfection, she found her footing. That is the magic of the older voice. We don’t have all the answers, but we have the context. We know that the cliff edge looks steeper than it is. So why do we hesitate? Why do we hoard our experiences like secrets? I think it’s because we’ve been conditioned to believe that value lies in our utility, not our humanity. We think we need to have it all figured out before we can help anyone else. We think that admitting we were lost, confused, or scared diminishes our authority. But nothing could be further from the truth. Vulnerability is the bridge. When you share the messy middle—the part of the journey where you didn’t know which way to turn—you make the path visible for the person behind you. Think about the last time you felt truly seen by someone. Was it when they listed their achievements? Or was it when they admitted they were afraid? It’s the latter. Always. When you open up to someone younger, you are doing more than teaching them skills. You are validating their struggle. You are saying, 'I have been there. This feeling is normal. You are not broken for feeling this way.' That validation is a gift that money cannot buy. It accelerates growth. It shortens the cycle of shame. And it creates a lineage of resilience that stretches far beyond any single career or relationship. But we have to be willing to crack open the door first. We have to trust that our stories, in their rawest form, are exactly what the next generation needs to hear. Now, I know what some of you might be thinking. 'But Sacha, I’m not an expert. I’m still figuring it out myself.' Let me tell you about David. He’s a graphic designer in his early twenties who came to me for help navigating office politics. He was talented but timid, constantly apologizing for taking up space. I sat down with him and instead of giving him a lecture on assertiveness, I asked him to teach me something. I asked him to explain the new design software he used, the trends he was seeing in his field, the way he connected with audiences online. As he spoke, his confidence grew. He wasn’t just answering questions; he was leading. He was the expert in that room. And in that shift, something magical happened. He stopped looking at me as a savior and started looking at himself as a capable creator. By inviting him into a role of teacher, I empowered him to see his own value. Mentoring is not a top-down transaction. It is a dance. It requires humility from both sides. The older mentor brings wisdom, pattern recognition, and emotional steadiness. The younger mentee brings fresh perspective, technological fluency, and unjaded enthusiasm. Together, you create a feedback loop that lifts both of you. You remind them of their potential; they remind you of your vitality. It keeps your own spirit young, curious, and engaged. It prevents stagnation. It proves that learning never stops, no matter how many years you’ve been in the game. This brings me to the heart of today’s conversation. Why do we seek purpose in mentoring? It’s not just about helping others. It’s about healing ourselves. There is a profound sense of closure that comes from passing on what we’ve learned. It’s the act of planting trees under whose shade you may never sit. When you invest in someone else’s growth, you are investing in a future you believe in. You are saying that your struggles were not in vain. They had meaning. They prepared you for this moment of guidance. I think about the women who guided me in my thirties. I barely remember the specific advice they gave me about contracts or negotiations. But I remember the way they looked at me when I doubted myself. I remember the quiet certainty in their voices that told me I belonged. That certainty became part of my internal narrative. Now, I am trying to offer that same certainty to others. In doing so, I am reconnecting with my own best self. I am remembering why I started this work in the first place. Mentoring pulls us out of our own heads, out of our daily grind, and connects us to the larger tapestry of human experience. It reminds us that we are part of something bigger than our individual successes. It gives us a reason to keep going, to keep growing, to keep showing up, even when the road gets tough. Because somewhere down the line, someone is waiting for your light. So, where do you start? You don’t need a title. You don’t need a formal program. You just need to notice who is standing nearby, looking a little lost, carrying a little too much. It might be your junior associate who stays late every night. It might be your neighbor’s daughter who wants to be an artist but is afraid to tell her parents. It might be your own sister who is navigating a new chapter with shaky hands. Reach out. Ask them how they are doing, really doing. Listen to the spaces between their words. Share one small thing about your own journey—a mistake you made, a fear you conquered, a lesson you wish you’d known sooner. Keep it simple. Keep it honest. That’s the pivot point. It’s not about grand gestures. It’s about consistent, gentle presence. It’s about being the steady hand on the rail when the stairs get steep. And as you do this, watch what happens to you. Watch your own heart soften. Watch your own perspective broaden. You will find that in lifting others, you rise yourself. You will discover a wellspring of joy that has nothing to do with accolades or applause. It’s the quiet, deep satisfaction of knowing that your life has rippled outward, touching lives you may never fully understand, but changing them nonetheless. That is purpose. That is legacy. That is the beautiful chaos of living fully, and loving deeply, and letting go gracefully. Thank you for sitting with me in this space today. Remember, you are never too old to learn, and you are never too inexperienced to teach. There is wisdom in every stage of life, waiting to be shared. Until next time, keep trusting your path, and keep opening your heart. I’ll see you soon.