The Mentors Who Made Me

There are managers. There are leaders. And then—there are mentors.

I have been lucky to know all three. But the mentors? They shaped me. They saw parts of me I was still learning to understand. They held the flashlight when I could not see the path. They became mirrors, sounding boards, quiet cheerleaders, and sometimes, necessary disruptors of my comfort zones.

In a world that often asks us to specialize, to stay in our lanes, I was encouraged to roam. From engineering to marketing, to sales, to business development, to foresight and innovation, my career has been a journey of curiosity and courage. And every pivot, every transformation, carried the imprint of a mentor who said, “Try it. You can.”

One mentor took a chance on me early on—handed me the keys to marketing and trusted me to lead. But what moved me most was not just their faith in my abilities. It was their willingness to tell me, years later, that if I ever outgrew the role or the company, I should leave. Even if it meant losing someone they valued.

That was a lesson in leadership I will never forget. Real mentorship is not about possession. It is not about loyalty to a brand or to a boss. It is about radical care. It is about believing in someone's growth even when it means letting them go. That kind of selflessness is rare—and unforgettable.

Over time, I came to understand that mentors are not always the ones above you. Sometimes, they sit beside you. Sometimes, they are your managers, and sometimes they are not. But they all share one thing in common: they help you find your ikigai—your reason for being.

Equally important, though less talked about, are sponsors. These are the leaders—often within your organization—who speak your name in rooms you have not yet entered. Who advocate for you when visibility matters most. And yes, I learned the hard way that when a sponsor leaves, the impact can feel like a sudden silence. The best response? Build those relationships early. Genuinely. Not just for career advancement, but from a place of curiosity, shared values, and authenticity.

As an immigrant woman navigating corporate spaces that were not built with people like me in mind, mentorship has been more than a professional strategy. It has been a lifeline. The cultural nuances, the unspoken rules, the times I was told I was “too quiet” or “too bold”—mentors helped me decode it all. They gave me language, tools, and most importantly, permission to take up space.

Some became like family—gentle yet firm. Others like close friends—non-judgmental and grounding. Through their guidance, I learned to lead others with the same generosity. And yes, even when it meant letting go of a high-performing team member who was ready to grow beyond my team, I remembered what was once gifted to me: selfless belief.

That is mentorship at its core. A bridge. A release. A steady hand that reminds you, “You are allowed to evolve.”

Today, I urge everyone—especially women, immigrants, and those navigating systems not built for them—to create their own personal board of mentors. Not just one. A circle. A constellation of voices who see your wholeness, not just your performance.

Because with the right mentors, your journey is not just onward and upward—it is deeply yours.

Seats of Empathy

It was not the delayed flight that disappointed me most, or the irony that the snacks—an entire box of Pringles, surprisingly generous—were among the best I had seen on a U.S. domestic airline.

It was something deeper. A fracture that went unnoticed by most, but impossible for me to ignore.

I had not flown United in nearly a decade. American Airlines had earned my loyalty over the years—with preferred status, seamless rebookings, and, on international partners like Qatar, small gestures that made me feel remembered. Valued. Seen.

But this flight with United reminded me how quickly trust can unravel when a brand’s culture is not lived out by the very people who carry it forward.

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Before I even reached the airport, United’s app was refreshingly transparent: our flight would be delayed by thirty minutes due to the crew needing mandatory rest. A reasonable delay, and one I appreciated being informed about in advance. That level of proactive communication gave me hope—perhaps things had changed since my last flight with them.

But what happened at the gate revealed something else entirely.

Five minutes before boarding, a new delay was announced. The flight attendants, it turns out, were not scheduled to be picked up from their hotel until after our original departure time. A logistical oversight that puzzled me: how could an airline miss such a basic detail? Do these scheduling gaps happen often? More importantly, who holds the accountability?

I watched time stretch and uncertainty thicken. Another delay followed—this time due to weather. What began as a short delay ballooned to over two and a half hours. I would miss my meeting. My day’s purpose was gone.

And yet, what struck me most was not the operational chaos. It was what happened next.

The plane finally boarded. I noticed several empty seats in the Economy Plus section. Some passengers—perhaps hoping for a small reprieve after hours of delay—had quietly moved forward, easing themselves into those unused spots. And then, the announcement came. Not as a welcome. Not as an accommodation. But as a warning, a correction.

“If you are seated beyond Row 21, please return to your assigned seat. Upgrades to the front are available for purchase.”

It was not just an upsell. It was a warning. A subtle but sharp reminder: empathy was not part of this equation.

That moment? That was the culture speaking. Loud and clear.

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I understand business models. I understand incentives. But I also understand people.

That announcement—on the heels of a frustrating series of events—landed like a slap. It told passengers that even after we had endured delays, missed connections, and a clear breakdown in scheduling communication, we were still being asked to pay more. No empathy. No acknowledgment. Just a script. Just a quota.

The airline might argue it was policy. But what is policy without wisdom?

Had the crew instead invited passengers with the tightest connections to move forward—to offer even the smallest chance at reclaiming lost time—it would have transformed the tone of the entire experience. Even if the delay was out of their hands, the empathy would not have been.

That is the moment when culture shows itself. Not in the livery, not in the lounge, but in the quiet, consequential decisions frontline employees make under stress.

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As a strategist, I could not help but reflect.

There is a profound disconnect when your people are not aligned with your brand’s values and empowered to live them. When KPIs reward the wrong behaviors, you are not just losing revenue opportunities—you are eroding trust. Alienating loyalty. Turning passengers into skeptics.

This is not just about airlines. This is a mirror for every business leader.

Are your metrics inadvertently encouraging short-term thinking over long-term brand affinity? Are your employees equipped—and trusted—to make decisions that reflect your company’s deeper promise?

Culture is not a plaque on the wall. It is a decision made at Row 21, seat by seat.

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So here is the question I leave you with:

If your frontline employee had to choose between earning a few dollars through a policy-driven upsell or saving the trust of a customer through a moment of empathy—which would they choose?

And more importantly—what have you trained them to value?

Because sometimes, the real upgrade a customer is seeking is not a better seat. It is a better experience. A brand that remembers why people fly in the first place: to get somewhere that matters.

On time. With care. And just enough humanity to feel like we are more than just a boarding group.