Some people show up in your life like a flash mob—unexpected, kind of confusing, but ultimately unforgettable. I was 19 when I met mine, and she didn’t just change my trajectory; she turned my compass into a disco ball and dared me to dance. Her name was Evelyn, though I didn’t even know that the first time she stopped by the beachfront café my family owned. What I did know was that she had a voice that could cut through the racket of seagulls and summer tourists, ordering her iced coffee like she was auditioning for the lead in a Nancy Meyers film—confident, poised, magnetic.

She was a regular that summer, and while her tailored linen pants suggested she spent her days sipping Prosecco on yachts, it turned out she was a writer. A real one. The kind who published short stories in places I’d only dog-eared in my college library. Evelyn always brought her laptop, stationed herself at one of the café’s tiny tables, and gave off an aura of “Don’t interrupt me unless you’re offering a plot twist in human form.” Lucky for me, I became her favorite twist.

Accidental Mentors & Overheard Dreams

Here’s the backstory: I was majoring in English Literature because, well, “majoring in discontented stares out of windows” wasn’t an official option. I loved writing but had no idea what to do with it. My plan was vague at best. Maybe I’d become a teacher, or maybe I’d run off to Paris and write novels in a cramped garret like a sad bohemian cliché (minus the beret—those never work in humid climates).

One July morning, as I was busing tables near her spot, I didn’t realize Evelyn was watching me. I was venting to a coworker about my upcoming creative writing class and said, “I’m just bracing myself for the usual: ‘Your story rambles. Also, the main character could use some therapy. Love, Professor Brutal.’”

Evelyn didn’t even blink before cutting in. “Says the student who keeps showing up. You must be better than you think.”

Cue an awkward laugh from me as my coworker escaped to the kitchen. But Evelyn wasn’t joking. “What do you write?” she asked, adjusting her tortoiseshell glasses like she truly cared about the answer. I was so startled that all I could mumble was, “Stories about this place—tourists, locals, summer secrets.”

Without skipping a beat, she replied, “Good. Write what you know. And send me something.”

She handed me her business card. My hands were still trembling when I stuffed it into my apron and scurried off to the espresso machine. But I remember thinking, “She sees something in me. Why? What is it?”

When Someone Believes Before You Do

Spoiler: I did send her the story. It was called “Bunkers on the Beach,” and it was about a lifeguard who falls for a tourist while the looming threat of a hurricane mirrors their runaway emotions. (Was it dramatic? Oh, absolutely. But hey, I was 19.)

I expected Evelyn’s response to sting like one of the jellyfish washing ashore that summer. Instead, it felt more like sunlight after a storm. Her email said, “Keep going. You’ve got rhythm. Now, find the heartbeat.” I didn’t fully understand what she meant, but I printed those words anyway. I hung them on the corkboard in my dorm room later that fall, where they stayed through four years and countless iterations of my identity crisis.

There was nothing magical about Evelyn’s mentorship, and that’s exactly why it worked. She didn’t lather me with false praise or tell me to “reach for the stars,” a phrase that feels a little offensive to short people like me. Instead, she taught me lessons through small moments and sharp honesty. She was the first person to treat me like I was a writer before I had the nerve to call myself one.

Here are three things Evelyn taught me, even though I didn’t realize they were lessons until much later:

1. Validate Your Own Voice

Evelyn’s mantra was engraved in my brain: “Your stories belong to you first.” This hit me like a Taylor Swift bridge—it felt personal and universally true. Too often, we dismiss what makes us unique because we assume it’s not enough. But the quirks, flaws, and deeply personal experiences are where the magic hides.

It wasn’t about writing flawless sentences; it was about writing fearlessly. Because, as Evelyn put it, “No one else can put the Grand Strand into words the way you do.”

Takeaway: Whether you’re writing, dating, or attempting to bake banana bread during a breakup, own your quirks. They’re the good stuff.

2. Seek a Chorus, Not an Echo

Evelyn wasn’t just my hype woman; she was constructive. When she thought my dialogue dragged or my characters needed depth, she told me, usually over a cappuccino she’d described as “adequate but lacking nuance.” She pushed me to revise with integrity, arguing that true growth only happens when you let the right people challenge you—not for the sake of criticism, but because they genuinely want you to succeed.

Takeaway: Find friends, partners, or mentors who challenge you kindly. They’ll help you grow into your best self, even if it’s uncomfortable in the moment.

3. Show Up—Even on Hard Days

Writing isn’t glamorous in reality. It’s a lot of showing up, often to a blank page that stares back at you like a cat unimpressed by your existence. Evelyn once told me, “On the days you don’t feel inspired, just put words on a page. Garbage is recyclable. A blank page isn’t.” And that, my friends, is where the magic happened: in the mess, the drafts, and the unpolished beginning.

Even now, when I’m stuck in a creative rut—or wondering if I’m enough in relationships or life in general—I remind myself of those words. Growth happens in the discipline. Love happens in showing up, even when it’s hard.

Takeaway: Whether it’s pursuing your passion or committing to a relationship, consistency is everything. You’ll become better—not instantly, but eventually.

The Ripple Effects of Being Seen

After Evelyn, I stopped apologizing for wanting to write. I authored that novel I’d always dreamed of, and there’s no doubt it wouldn’t exist without her nudging me toward courage. But the real gift Evelyn gave me wasn’t just a career path. It was a feeling: being seen, for all of who I was, by someone who had no vested interest in my success other than watching me soar.

Here’s the thing: you never know when you might be someone’s Evelyn. A passing remark, a random conversation, or a spur-of-the-moment decision to believe in someone can change the way they see themselves. Evelyn probably had no clue her iced coffee pep talks would live rent-free in my head a decade later, but they do. And I’ll forever be grateful.

So, to the person reading this: Be brave enough to see people. And braver still to show up, relentlessly, for yourself.