Story 1: Becoming the Person You’re Meant to Be

I was in fifth grade when my mom started taking me to my classmate Chris’s house for piano lessons. I had always wanted to learn how to play the piano, but wanting a piano and owning one were two very different things. My mom understood how quickly kids can fall in and out of hobbies, so before she reached into her purse to buy a piano, she created a small test:

Show consistent interest first; the instrument will follow.

So every Tuesday at 4 p.m., she’d drive me to my classmate Chris’s living room, where his piano teacher would patiently guide my naive fingers across the keys. Weeks became months. Months became years. By seventh grade, I had earned a piano of my own. I wasn’t great, but I wasn’t terrible either. I could have kept going. I should have kept going.

But by eighth grade, something began to shift.

It wasn’t that I disliked the piano — I just liked something else more. I had discovered the woods, the creeks, the frogs, the muddy adventures of childhood curiosity. Have you ever tried to catch a frog. Approach by stealth, then with a fully relaxed arm, strike out with an open hand to clasp the slimy amphibian. Or end up with a handful of mud. It's quite the challenge.

It was experiences like those that led me to pursue, with the fierce conviction only an eighth-grader can muster, to become a veterinarian. There was only one simple problem: unlike the piano, where I had an instructor, I had no guide for how to become a veterinarian.  Not that my adolescent brain articulated it that clearly. I just knew the woods and the science of nature was calling me louder than anything else. 

So on Wednesday afternoons — with a new piano came a new teacher on a new day — I’d disappear with a friend into the trees. I was smart enough to avoid my mother's fury by not skipping my lessons entirely, but clever enough to make my fading interest obvious. I’d show up late, wet, muddy, smelling faintly of creek water. It didn’t take long before the lessons stopped, and I was relieved of my piano duty.

I never did become a veterinarian. And I never played piano again. My mom eventually sold the piano to another parent with another eager child. Today, I sometimes wish I could play — that I could coax something beautiful out of those ivory and ebony keys. But life had other plans.  

I ended up going to medical school instead.

That path didn’t fully reveal itself until college. Growing up, none of the parents in our neighborhood had degrees. They were hardworking, blue-collar people — the kind who worked all week, coached football and baseball on weekday nights and weekends, and made the neighborhood feel safe. Medical school, and everything beyond it, felt like uncharted territory.

And then, one summer, everything changed.

I was playing baseball in a local league, coached by my friend’s uncle. One night, while out with my friend, I casually mentioned I was thinking about medical school. My friend shot back instantly:
 “Then you should talk to my uncle.”
 “Your uncle? Our coach?”
 “Yeah — he’s a neurologist.”

I was stunned. A neurologist? Coaching our summer league? That was the break I was looking for. Not long after, I set up a meeting with him. He shared his time, his advice, his guidance — all freely. That conversation shaped the trajectory of my entire life. I sometimes wonder what I would be doing if I didn't decide to play summer baseball that year, landed on a different team, or had a different friend. 

That was my first real understanding of the power of mentorship.

But I also learned something equally important:

External mentorship is useless without self-mentorship.

Think of mentorship like a book sitting on your shelf. The book may contain everything you need to know about how to race a car — the techniques, the strategies, the physics. But unless you actually get behind the wheel, feel the acceleration, sense the tires gripping (or slipping) on the edge of control, and respond in real time, you’ll never become a racer.

You’ll remain a knowledgeable spectator. But you'll never cross a finish line at 220 MPH.

Self-mentorship is climbing into the driver’s seat. It’s taking ownership of your growth. It’s learning from the feedback life gives you — sometimes smooth, sometimes terrifying, often enlightening.

External mentors open doors.

Self-mentorship is what allows you to walk through them.