Empathy or Experience- Breaking the Barriers via Mentorship

The Mentorship Dilemma: Empathy vs. Experience

Earlier this year, I was working with a young tennis player — a teenager full of promise, raw talent, and that beautiful uncertainty that often surrounds potential. After a tournament, we jumped on a call to debrief. We talked through the match, what worked, what didn’t, and what was sitting with him emotionally. Midway through the call, he paused and said, “My dad’s calling, I have to take this.” I said, “Of course,” and waited.

And waited.

Seventeen minutes passed. I thought maybe something had come up. Maybe he’d got caught in another conversation. Maybe life had simply pulled him elsewhere. But the silence lingered, and it became clear: he wasn’t coming back. And he never intended to.

I wish I could say it didn’t affect me. But it did — more than I wanted to admit. Not because I’m inexperienced. Not because I haven't worked with athletes at all levels. But because mentorship, at its core, isn’t technical. It’s emotional. It’s relational. You don’t just offer frameworks — you offer yourself. And when that’s met with indifference, it cuts deep. For a while, I sat with questions I didn’t want to ask. Was I not credible enough? Did I misread the connection? Was I naïve? All I wanted was to take a break.

The story doesn’t end there. But then something happened. Calls, requests to join their teams, work started pouring in. I had to get back to work. And it was not just getting back to work. Together, we were building it. Together. The tournaments followed. And so did the wins.

Then, a few months later, the boy returned. He reached out and asked if we could start working together again.

And I said no.

Not out of resentment. Not to prove a point. But because mentorship isn’t just about giving. It’s about boundaries. It’s about mutuality. And sometimes, the most powerful thing a mentor can do is protect their energy and uphold the standard — even when it would be easier to say yes.

This experience forced me to confront a deeper truth — not just about myself, but about the nature of mentorship itself. We often romanticize the idea of the “ideal mentor” — wise, steady, endlessly available. But in reality, not all mentors are the same. And perhaps that’s the most important realization a mentee can have.

Some mentors will sit with you in silence. They’ll hold space not just for your ambitions, but for your doubts. They help you untangle emotions you didn’t have words for, and they remind you that you are human before you are exceptional. These mentors bring empathy, emotional intelligence, and ethical clarity. They don’t fix you — they see you. And that alone is transformational.

Other mentors will challenge you — fiercely, unsparingly, and with purpose. They’ll point out the cracks in your foundation, the assumptions that no longer serve you, the habits that won’t hold up under pressure. They won’t hold your hand — but they will sharpen your mind. These mentors bring insight shaped by experience, a long view earned through failure and repetition. They don’t coddle your confidence — they cultivate your edge.

And so the mentorship dilemma emerges. Do we need emotional safety or experiential challenge? Do we seek warmth or wisdom? Empathy or experience?

The honest answer? We need both — just not always at the same time. What matters is not the mentor’s style, but our own readiness to receive it. Sometimes we need comfort. Other times, we need clarity. And occasionally, we need confrontation. The best mentors — the rare ones — don’t force us to choose. They know when to offer the mirror, and when to offer the map. That’s not a dilemma. That’s discernment.

Mentorship, like sport, is seasonal. And at every stage, we require something different. In the beginning — the spark stage — we don’t need brilliance. We need belief. Someone who sees our potential before the scoreboard does. Someone who listens, affirms, and builds confidence that doesn’t depend on results. At this stage, empathy matters more than accolades.

As we grow and start to encounter resistance, we reach what I call the climb. Here, the need for experience becomes undeniable. It’s not enough to feel supported — we need to be directed. We need someone who’s lived through what we’re facing. Someone who can distinguish between a bad day and a bad direction. This is when mentorship turns into mentorship in the truest sense: less about feeling good and more about getting better.

At the elite stage — where performance is precision and margin for error is minimal — mentorship shifts again. It becomes less emotional, more strategic. We lean on mentors who bring specificity. Specialists. Systems. Structure. We want someone who knows how to win — not just technically, but sustainably. And yet, even here, empathy doesn’t disappear. It just matures. The best mentors at this level know when to push and when to pause. They understand that performance is as much emotional resilience as it is technical execution.

No matter the stage, one thing cuts across all great mentorship: alignment. Not admiration. Not popularity. Not prestige. Alignment. Do our values match? Does this person understand who I am and who I’m trying to become? Do they challenge me in ways that feel constructive, not depleting? Do they see me — not just as a player or a professional, but as a person?

When the young player came back, I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t vindictive. But I was clear. Boundaries, too, are a form of mentorship. They model respect, self-worth, and clarity of purpose. Forgiveness doesn’t always mean return. Sometimes it simply means peace — and a choice to protect the integrity of the work.

So, how do you choose the right mentor?

Don’t ask, “Who is the best?”

Ask instead, “Who brings out the best in me — and keeps me accountable to it?”

That’s your mentor.

That’s your inflection point.

That’s where growth begins — not with answers, but with the courage to ask better questions.