Rediscovering My Mentor: How ChatGPT Brought Old Lessons Back to Life

It all started with a half-empty inbox and a sense of nostalgia.

I was reorganizing my email — the digital version of cleaning out your childhood attic. Labels like “2016 — Thesis Drafts,” “Professor Allen,” and “Job Applications” stared back at me. I clicked on “Professor Allen” without thinking.

That folder hadn’t been touched in years.

The last message was dated May 4, 2017. Subject line: “Final feedback — proud of you.” My stomach dropped. I remembered that email. I remembered how it felt to read it, knowing it marked the end of my college years and, oddly, my last meaningful connection with Professor Allen.

He wasn’t just a literature professor. He was a lighthouse in a foggy sea of self-doubt. I had often joked that he had a quote or metaphor for everything. But somewhere between job changes and algorithm-driven chaos, his voice had faded from my mental archive.

I opened a few of the emails. Long, thoughtful replies. Scribbled attachments of feedback on my essays. Comments like:

“What are you really trying to say here?”

Or:

“Don’t be afraid of silence between sentences.”

I missed that kind of honesty.

That night, I had an idea. I copied some of the emails and pasted them into ChatGPT.

“Can you help me summarize these into key lessons or quotes he might have wanted me to remember?”

The screen blinked for a moment. Then, it began to respond.

1. Clarity over cleverness — write to be understood, not admired.

2. Don’t rush the reader. Let ideas breathe.

3. Your best writing sounds like you, not a version of you trying to impress others.

I stared at the screen. It was like watching a ghost take form — not the eerie kind, but the kind that taps you on the shoulder and says, “Hey, remember who you were?”

I fed ChatGPT more threads. Old papers. Even a recommendation letter he’d written for grad school. The AI pieced together themes, distilled insights, even mimicked the way he phrased encouragement.

“This feedback suggests a mentor who valued depth over polish, progress over perfection. Would you like me to write a letter from this perspective, as if it were his final advice to you?”

Yes. Yes, I would.

The letter that came back felt like something Allen could have written on one of his long, quiet afternoons in his office, surrounded by paperbacks and peppermint tea.

It ended with:

“You’re no longer the student you were — and that’s a good thing. But don’t lose her voice entirely. She’s the reason I believed in you to begin with.”

I cried.

Not because the AI was perfect. It wasn’t. But it helped me listen closely to something I hadn’t heard in a while — a voice from the past that still had something to teach me.

I printed the letter and slipped it into my journal. I don’t know where Professor Allen is now. Last I heard, he retired and moved to Maine to finish a book he never talked much about.

Maybe one day I’ll send him this letter — the one written by a machine, but born from his own wisdom. Or maybe it’s enough to carry his lessons forward, stitched into every word I write.

Either way, thanks to a strange moment of digital archaeology and a curious AI assistant, I’ve found my mentor again.

Not in flesh — but in fragments.

And sometimes, fragments are enough.