"The Gift of Presence: A Letter to My Mentor"

Dear Mr. Jansen,

I hope this letter finds you well, though I imagine you’ve spent the last few weeks in your usual manner: quietly tending to your garden, reading, and finding ways to share wisdom without making a fuss. If anyone were to tell me that the most significant person in my life would be someone so humbly understated, I wouldn’t have believed them. But as I write this letter, I realize just how much you’ve shaped my journey—whether you meant to or not—and how deeply grateful I am for the quiet, unwavering guidance you’ve offered all these years.

As the season of reflection approaches, I find myself thinking back to those moments when our paths crossed, so unassumingly, and yet, the ripple effects of those encounters have followed me through every major step I’ve taken since.

It’s funny how life works. In the hustle and bustle of a young mind, racing to figure out its next move, you appeared not with grand declarations or sweeping advice, but with simple, almost offhand words that have stayed with me ever since. I think it’s because they weren’t words meant to fix anything. They were simply observations, gentle nudges, reminders that I was capable of more than I believed.

I first met you on a rainy day in November, nearly a decade ago, during a time in my life when I felt more lost than I ever had before. You were the new teacher at the community center where I volunteered, and at first, I’ll admit, I wasn’t sure what to make of you. You were quiet in a way that seemed almost foreign to me—an enigma wrapped in a cardigan and a pair of glasses, always slightly perched on the edge of your nose.

That day, as we sat in a circle of students, you spoke of passion and purpose—not as some lofty ideals but as things that were found in everyday moments. I remember you said something like, "Passion isn’t just a big bang of excitement; sometimes it’s the quiet work that fills your soul in ways you don’t always understand until much later.” At the time, I nodded along, though I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant. But I can say now, after all these years, that those words have stayed with me.

In fact, they became a quiet anchor for me during one of the most turbulent years of my life. You probably don’t remember it, but that first year of working together, I was struggling—struggling with my sense of identity, my career choices, my relationships. Nothing seemed to align, and every direction I thought I should take felt wrong. There were nights when I sat in my car, staring at the rearview mirror, wondering if I was doing anything right. But in the back of my mind, your words about quiet passion lingered, pushing me to slow down and look at the small victories, rather than the grand failures I seemed to focus on.

It was through you that I learned the importance of showing up—whether for others or for myself. You never made a big deal about anything you did; you simply did it because it mattered. There was something about your consistency, your patience, and your gentle encouragement that made me realize the small things we do every day can have a much greater impact than the big, loud moments of achievement we often seek.

I remember a time when I was preparing for a presentation, convinced it was going to be a disaster. I had rehearsed every word, and memorized every statistic, and yet, there I was, shaking like a leaf in front of a small audience. You were seated in the back, as always, watching with that calm, knowing smile. When the presentation was over, and I felt sure I had failed, you came up to me afterward and said, "You did well. But next time, just breathe. Let the words come as they need to.”

I wasn’t sure how to take it at the time. “Just breathe?” seemed too simple, too easy. But your wisdom wasn’t about complicating things or making them seem grandiose; it was about reminding me of the power of simplicity, of presence, of trusting myself enough to let things unfold naturally.

You were always there—not in a way that overshadowed me, but in a way that made me feel seen. You taught me the importance of listening—listening—not just to others, but to the whispers of my own heart. It was through your example that I began to understand what true mentorship meant: not giving answers but helping someone find the questions they need to ask. It was never about solving my problems but about helping me develop the tools to solve them myself.

There was one day, years after I had stopped taking your classes when I came to you with a question about my next career step. You didn’t give me a straight answer. Instead, you asked, “What’s the part of this path that excites you? Not the accolades or the recognition—what’s the part that feels like it could fill you with joy, even if no one else noticed?”

That question was a turning point. It helped me realign myself, see beyond the external markers of success, and focus on the inner fulfillment that I had been overlooking. That conversation, brief as it was, set me on a completely different trajectory, one that felt truer to my spirit.

As I reflect on all this now, I realize how rare it is to encounter someone who imparts such quiet wisdom. You didn’t push, you didn’t demand. You simply offered your presence and your encouragement, and that alone was enough to steer me through countless uncertain moments.

As the holiday season approaches, a time when we are often encouraged to reflect and give thanks, I can’t help but be filled with gratitude for you. Not just for the lessons you’ve taught me, but for the way you showed up when I needed it most—steadfast, humble, and endlessly patient. You may not realize it, but you were a lighthouse in my fog, a steady guide when everything around me felt uncertain.

So, thank you, Mr. Jansen. Thank you for showing me that the greatest gifts don’t always come with fanfare. They come in the quiet moments of connection, the unspoken understanding, the simple acts of kindness that ripple through our lives and shape who we become. I hope this letter reaches you with the same gentleness that you’ve shared with me.

And to anyone reading this, I encourage you to think about the unsung mentors in your life—the ones who didn’t make a spectacle of their influence but who, like Mr. Jansen, have helped you become who you are today. Take a moment to thank them. Send them a letter, or a message, or simply reflect on the ways they’ve impacted you. Because sometimes, the most meaningful gifts are the ones we receive quietly, without even realizing their true power until years later.

With deep gratitude,

[Soma]