Just yesterday, I received news that one of the great mentors of my life, a colleague of mine at RAND, had just passed away.  While I had known this was a possibility, it was still a jolt.  This was a woman who for the entirety of my PhD program—a tenuous time in the life of any academic—had looked out for me, supported me, and guided me.  She taught me the ropes of policy writing and always treated me like an equal, despite my junior status, constantly seeking out and valuing my opinion.  After our various collaborations, she had sung my praises to fellow researchers so that I could get hired on future projects.  She was, in short, everything that a mentor should be and all that I could have asked for.  And so it hit me hard when I found out that she was gone.

If we are lucky enough to make it in our chosen profession, or our professional endeavors more broadly, it is likely because we have had someone to guide us through this process; someone more experienced and sager than we to help us navigate the challenges and overcome the obstacles that invariably appear in our way.  When I look back on my various careers (and there have been several), I don’t think it’s mere coincidence that in the ones in which I was most successful, I also had the best mentors.

When I first went to Shanghai, as a relatively green high school teacher with only two years of experience under my belt, I was understandably nervous.  I was going to one of the highest-performing schools in Asia, a region with a reputation for hard-charging students and highly-ambitious parents.  The ostentatious boarding school in Switzerland at which I had taught was a far cry academically from the institution at which I found myself.  Teaching AP and IB classes, I was told that nothing but the highest scores would be accepted.  Not surprisingly, I was nervous about falling short of expectations.  But the wizened, curmudgeonly, charismatic teacher across the hall took a liking to me for some reason.  And he took me under his wing.  Over the course of the next two years, Harvey shared lesson plans and educational philosophies but more importantly, he shared his perspective and wisdom.  And when that didn’t work, he’d just show up after class and say, “these fucking kids!”, which injected a welcome dose of levity and humor when I needed it most.

Another fellow history teacher in Shanghai, who was a bit more politic and tactful, counseled me on the best way to handle situations that didn’t go my way.  Karen taught me how to advocate for the classes and coaching positions I wanted more strategically.  When I didn’t get the varsity coaching job I thought I deserved, she calmed me down and told me how I could work this perceived slight to my advantage.  So when I finally offered my account of the situation to my principal, it was with a cool head and an eye toward the opportunities I might have in the future, rather than the ones I had been denied in the past.  When I read the recommendation that my principal wrote me for my next teaching job, he cited that very incident, the maturity with which I had handled it, and what a team player I had been.

I often wonder how my years as an Air Force officer might have been different had I had mentors of similar quality.  Someone to look up to who could have shown me the way.  I certainly can’t blame all of my poor decisions and questionable actions while in the military on this lack of mentorship—I was an adult (albeit 23 years old) and responsible for my actions, to be sure.  But again, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the fields in which I have found more success—teaching and research—are the ones in which I have had the best mentors.

I’m not sure I will ever be able to properly thank my departed mentor for everything she gave to me.  I did go to visit her at her home when I was back in DC for Christmas last month.  Thankfully, I had the opportunity to tell her how much her support had meant to me professionally but also personally.  How much her guidance, but more importantly her faith, had meant.  So we did get to share that before she passed.  But I can’t help but think how much more she gave to me than I to her.  I suppose the best I can do is to pay it forward and offer the same kind of mentorship and support to those budding academics with whom I now work and will hopefully work in the years to come.  So that others can stand on my shoulders as I, for a short while, stood on hers.

I may never be the world’s most gift political scientist or policy researcher, or solve the world’s most pressing problems or free it of the scourge of various infectious diseases.  But I am infinitely better off by virtue of having had someone ardently in my corner, looking out and advocating for me along the way.  I am in a great place professionally—where I set out to be four years ago when I started my doctoral journey.  But I wouldn’t be here without you, Melinda.  Because nobody, no matter how talented, independent, or naturally gifted, does it alone.