Early in 2019, a coworker stopped by my desk and asked if we could go for a walk. It was a random request, but I said sure, because at the time I welcomed any excuse to avoid my job.
We headed to the elevator in a strange silence that signaled something serious. The ride downstairs was just as quiet. We stared at our feet. And then the elevator doors opened, and he was off, speaking as quickly as he strode. I had to do that awkward Olympic race-walk to catch up.
We took many, many laps around the building as he discussed his career ambitions, which would require moving from the town where he grew up, and whether he could (or should) pursue them. I asked questions in an attempt to distinguish between his personal sense of family loyalty and a more general fear of failure. He was sweating because he had some big decisions to make. I was sweating because he wouldn’t slow down.
Eventually, much to my relief, we stopped walking. But as I caught my breath, he asked if I would be his mentor.
The request stunned me because I’ve always thought mentors were older, wiser and had at least a basic idea about what they were doing with their lives.