The Mentorship Crisis: In Search of Sean Maguire

We’re in a mentorship crisis—not the kind you chart in reports or dissect in board meetings, but the kind you feel in the quiet spaces of growing up, trying, faltering, and searching.

Mentorship today, especially the kind that truly shapes lives, has become an endangered species. I'm not talking about performance reviews disguised as guidance or mentorship programs that check boxes. I’m talking about the kind of bond that forges legends—the kind that shapes empires, crafts philosophies, and stirs revolutions in hearts and minds. Aristotle to Alexander. Chanakya to Ashoka. Dior to Saint-Laurent. Socrates to Plato.

These weren’t transactional. These mentors went above and beyond. Their mentees, in turn, were hungry to learn. There was a sacred reciprocity that made these relationships more than professional; they were transformative. And now, we’re struggling to replicate even a fraction of that dynamic.

Scholars like Johnson, Smith, and Haythornthwaite have dissected why mentorship programs fail. In their HBR article, they write, "Marginal or mediocre mentoring may be a consequence of assigning mentors who are too busy, disinterested, dysfunctional, or simply lack competence in the role." Andy Lopata, Ben Afia, and Ruth Gotian echo this in their critique: "Despite the fact that 98% of Fortune 500 companies have mentoring programs, only 37% of professionals actually benefit from them."

Their answer lies in better program design. But mine is simpler, and perhaps more difficult: mentorship needs to be organic. We need a cultural shift—not just in companies but in schools, universities, and homes. Because the crisis didn’t start in boardrooms, it began in classrooms.

Teachers, once torchbearers of wisdom and wit, are now buried under bureaucracy, wary of stepping beyond the syllabus. They're afraid to mentor in a system that doesn't protect them, especially with helicopter parents ready to pounce. They gravitate toward the few students who either have no mentorship at home or whose parents actively encourage it. For the rest, they stay in their lane. And really, who can blame them? Teaching algebra is hard enough without also needing to be a life coach, parental diplomat, and Instagram trend analyst.

At the university level, it’s no better. Professors on the tenure track are buried in research and publishing demands. The kind of professor who finds the Will Hunting in their classroom is now expected to wait for that student to come to them. It’s all cautious. Hyper-aware. Sanitised. If Aristotle applied for a modern university position, HR would likely have him sit through a two-day sensitivity training.

When you read Kautilya's Arthashastra or Aristotle's teachings, what stands out is not just their brilliance but their boldness. They didn’t whisper their truths. They thundered them, flaws and all. They were opinionated. Flawed. But necessary. Their students became kings—literally and figuratively.

I’ve been lucky. I’ve had mentors. Some stay in their lane—the professional kind, who won’t stray from your career goals. But others? They are the real deal. One of my mentors is a Sean Maguire type—from Good Will Hunting fame. She talks about everything. No therapy degrees, no coaching certifications. Just wisdom. Stories. Arguments. Guidance. She’s seen my family; I’ve seen hers. And when I ignore her advice, she doesn’t sulk. Because the relationship is rooted in respect, not control.

She offers counsel not with caution but conviction. Her stories are roadmaps, her arguments—compasses pointing to growth. When she doesn’t have the answer, she sends me to someone who does. And more than anything, I know she wants me to thrive. That’s mentorship.

That’s the kind of mentorship I grew up watching—my mother and her mentors. It’s the kind I now experience. But it's not common. Because we live in a generation of transactional relationships. We’re suspicious of what we don’t pay for. We chase credentials like currency but forget that connection is what buys us wisdom. And maybe that’s why we’ve lost something sacred.

There’s also a trust issue that quietly underpins this crisis. We've been conditioned to believe that advice must be earned, validated, or paid for. That unless someone has the right title, degree, or invoice attached, their guidance is suspect. So we hesitate to accept mentorship when it shows up organically—when it doesn’t come with a contract or a subscription fee. We dismiss it. Or we doubt it. That distrust robs us of wisdom freely offered. It keeps us guarded in spaces where we should be open. We forget that not all knowledge has to be monetised to be meaningful. Sometimes, advice is just... free. Shocking, I know. Free. Unpackaged. Unmonetised. A unicorn in our times.

It’s the same with favours. We’ve moved into a culture where asking is easy, but the follow-through—especially gratitude—is low. We’ve become used to asking for help but struggle to express appreciation in meaningful ways. And that creates fatigue. It makes people less willing to give freely, less open to offering mentorship again. We throw around “thank you” like sprinkles on a cupcake but forget to actually show up for the baker—let alone wash the mixing bowl.

And while we often talk about the qualities of a good mentor, we forget the duty of a mentee:

• Report back—not just when you’ve followed their advice, but even when you haven’t.

• Check in. Call. Drop a message.

• Meet them for coffee or lunch when you can.

• Keep them in the loop.

• Show gratitude.

Because mentors, too, are on this earth for the first time. They don’t have it all figured out. Gratitude matters. Even if it’s not periodic, let them know what they’ve meant to you. One five-minute phone call while you’re running an errand is not too much. No one is that busy. If Beyoncé can answer fan mail (allegedly), you can dial your mentor.

Mentors also open doorways. They connect you—without hesitation, without gatekeeping. They whisper your name into rooms your feet haven’t yet entered—and suddenly, doors creak open like they’ve been waiting for you all along. They make calls. They bridge gaps. Not because they owe it to you, but because they want you to succeed. Their truest wish is to see you thrive, even beyond their reach. That’s advocacy, and it’s priceless.

I don’t know how we fix it entirely. Scholars have laid out frameworks. Companies have built programs. But if we don’t, at our core, start valuing these relationships again, nothing will change.

So, if you’re looking for a mentor, don’t wait for a TED Talk resume. Learn from everyone you meet. Be open. And if you see someone with potential— say something. Offer advice. Be a Sean Maguire. It’s okay to see someone other than your child flourish. It’s okay to positively impact someone outside your circle.

I once asked my mentor what she’s learned from mentoring students over the years. She said:

"Some, like you, stay beyond the university years—like Aristotle and Kautilya would have it. Some never turn your way again. But I’ve learned never to expect anything in return. To believe I’m doing it to make a larger impact."

Maybe that’s the lesson. The best mentors don’t wait for outcomes. They just show up. And the best mentees don’t worship. They learn. They call. Occasionally, bring cookies.

Because sometimes, what changes the course of a life isn’t a policy or platform—it’s a person. Just one person, who showed up.

That’s the relationship we need back.

Disclaimer: I love my career mentors, too. Boundaries are important. We don't need an app for this. I'm talking to you, Bumble. We don't need Bumble Mentor!

P.S. I wrote this originally in 2021 when I was reading Kautilya, Aristotle, and Socrates.

P.P.S. I want to dedicate this to A, R, D, V, N, U, M, and S. For being amazing mentors. You know who you are.