As I continue on the journey of learning to grieve my past losses, I have started journaling about the events and experiences that shaped me. The losses I write about are not always about death. They can be a career change, a significant life transition, or the end of a relationship. Some came with pain; others arrived disguised as growth.
The process of writing these stories has helped me reflect on my life, feel those memories, and learn to accept them. The more I welcome these mixed emotions, the more I notice how sadness and gratitude can coexist. What once felt like heaviness slowly transforms into understanding and appreciation, which is a way of seeing lessons instead of wounds.
I want to share one of those stories.
THE TUTOR WHO CHANGED EVERYTHING
“We honor those who lift us by lifting others. Every act of kindness is a continuation of their legacy.”
— Inspired by Fred Rogers
In college, I was drowning in a class that most people treat like a speed bump: college algebra. Numbers swam; formulas blurred. I was pulling long nights and still staring at a grade that would have knocked me off track.
That’s when I met Ben through a theater troupe we were both involved in. He was a Ph.D. student. He was thoughtful, patient, and generous in a way that made you feel seen rather than small. During one of our conversations, I shared my math predicament, and he offered to tutor me. I didn’t have money for a tutor, and I told him that upfront, half-embarrassed, half-resigned. He waved it off and said, “Let’s just get you through this.”
For two months, every week after rehearsal, we sat down to work on my homework and untangle problems line by line. Before big exams, he’d quiz me gently, never making me feel foolish for not knowing. Sometimes, after a tutoring session, we’d linger and talk about life on campus, such as the pressure, pride, loneliness, and the minor triumph of a good day. Those conversations felt like exhaling after holding my breath too long.
I passed algebra that semester. Ben finished his doctorate and moved back East. There was no final coffee or no grand goodbye. We drifted the way people do when life takes off in different directions. I assumed naively that we’d bump into each other again, pick up where we left off, and laugh about how dramatic math once felt.
Years later, I returned to the same theater community and learned that Ben had died from pancreatic cancer, swift and unforgiving. The news pierced deep into my heart like a single sharp needle: a sting, and then a sinking heaviness that spread through my chest. Around the same time, a person I know died by suicide. Two losses collapsed into each other, and I did what I knew too well: locked down, kept moving, pretended my heart wasn’t full of rocks.
It took years to let myself feel the sadness of losing Ben. Not a drama of tears in public, but the quieter ache of unfinished sentences and conversations that will never happen. When I finally sat with it, I realized that my grief had a shape like a question: how do I honor someone whose gift to me was time, courage, and belief?
I kept hearing Ben’s voice in the way he’d reframe a problem: “Okay, let’s go one step at a time.” He didn’t just teach me algebra; he modeled a way of being with people who are struggling. He had this unhurried, fully present attention that told my nervous system, “You’re not dumb; you’re just learning.”
So, I decided to let my grief move forward, outward, into other people’s lives. If I couldn’t thank him in person, I could echo him in practice.
Paying It Forward
When I started my own small business, I realized how lonely the “how do you actually do this?” questions can be. There’s plenty of theory online, but the practical details, such as proposal templates, invoicing rhythms, and first phone or Zoom meeting jitters, are often guarded like trade secrets. Whenever newer entrepreneurs ask, I share openly. I’m not an expert in everything, but I can share what I know: sample scopes, lessons from bad sales pitches and contracts, and the script I use to discuss price. Knowledge hoarding keeps power centralized, and knowledge sharing seeds a community. That’s Ben’s legacy in me.
What Ben Taught Me About Leadership
Leaders often think that influence is loud, such as through big speeches, grand plans, and prestigious titles. Ben reminded me that influence is also small and precise: two chairs, one table, a pencil, and an hour of undivided attention. That hour can change a semester. Sometimes it changes a life.
Over the years, I’ve mentored high schoolers, college students, and recent graduates. I won’t pretend I have all the answers; I have stories, scars, and a listening ear. Mentorship, I’ve learned, isn’t about giving people your path, but it’s about helping them find their footing on theirs. Ben never made me feel like a charity case; he treated me like a peer who needed a bridge. That’s how I try to show up for those I mentor: as a bridge, not a blueprint.
Today, when I teach, mentor, consult, or sit with someone who’s overwhelmed, I remember the tutoring table. I slow my breathing. I listen for the question beneath the question. I ask, “How can I help?” And then we take that step.
So, my philosophy of mentorship is to be the person you needed when you were stuck, not a savior, but a steady presence. That’s how we multiply good in the world without burning out: not by carrying everyone, but by standing beside them long enough for them to take themselves.
If you have a Ben in your life, please remember to reach out. If you need direction, I’ve created a reflection prompt to guide you.
Reflection Prompts
1. Name your Ben. Who gave you time, belief, or a needed push when you were stuck? What did they model that you can carry on?
2. Turn gratitude into practice. Reflect on a moment when someone believed in you without asking for anything in return. What would it look like to offer that same kind of faith to someone else today?
3. Serve without a spotlight. Identify one person or group who could quietly benefit from your time, wisdom, or skill with no transaction attached. Offer your support simply because you can, and notice how giving changes you, too.
4. Lead through presence, not performance. Choose one interaction this week, such as a meeting, a check-in, or a happy hour, where your only goal is to listen deeply. Notice how your energy shifts when you focus on being present rather than the outcome.
5. A ritual of thanks. Create a small, repeatable way to honor the people you’ve lost. It can be a whispered thank-you, a donation, an hour of service, a note to someone who needs belief today.
Sometimes the people who change our lives never see the ripple. Ben never will. But maybe the ripple is the point.
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