People like to say that corporations don’t care about you. They’re mostly right — institutions operate on incentives, not affection.
But some individuals inside them practise a rare kind of professionalism: measured guidance, clear boundaries, and the ability to treat a younger colleague with respect before they’ve earned it.
That, to me, is institutional kindness. Not emotional. Not familial. Just adults who know how to carry themselves — and allow you to grow in their proximity.
- The Director Who Became My First Mirror
She was my first real director — polished, articulate, American in the way that is both admirable and occasionally irritating: practical, efficient, always steering toward “what works.”
I was too emotional around her, too r...
People like to say that corporations don’t care about you. They’re mostly right — institutions operate on incentives, not affection.
But some individuals inside them practise a rare kind of professionalism: measured guidance, clear boundaries, and the ability to treat a younger colleague with respect before they’ve earned it.
That, to me, is institutional kindness. Not emotional. Not familial. Just adults who know how to carry themselves — and allow you to grow in their proximity.
- The Director Who Became My First Mirror
She was my first real director — polished, articulate, American in the way that is both admirable and occasionally irritating: practical, efficient, always steering toward “what works.”
I was too emotional around her, too reactive. She never indulged it, but she also never dismissed me.
Her kindness was structural: timely feedback, clean expectations, boundaries that held me in place long enough to learn. At the time, I misread that as distance. Now I recognise it as the exact level of respect a young professional actually needs.
She didn’t give me answers. She gave me clarity — and the space to think for myself.
- The VP Who Knew Exactly How the Game Worked
She was already a VP when I met her — a steady player in a company that changed direction every three months.
She wasn’t chasing hierarchy. She wasn’t obsessed with visibility. She had carved out her territory and maintained it with precision. That restraint alone taught me more about strategy than any leadership course.
She backed me when I asked, gave cover when I faltered, and modelled the difference between ambition and positioning.
She didn’t pretend to be a mentor. She simply behaved like a competent adult — and that, in corporate settings, is rarer than people admit.
Even when I left the company in a dramatic, chaotic way, she didn’t distance herself. She stayed in dialogue — not out of sentiment, but out of professional integrity.
- The Insider Mentor Who Reminded Me of My Father
He supported me from internship to full-time. Chinese, grounded, experienced enough to see the system clearly but not cynical enough to give up on it.
He and my father share a similar logic — but he’s calmer, steadier, and far more controlled. Corporate life had trained him into a version of maturity that my own upbringing never modeled.
I once arranged a dinner between them. Two men shaped by different institutions, sharing similar frameworks. It wasn’t about reconciling anything — I simply wanted them to meet as equals.
He saw me when I was volatile and unfocused. He didn’t dramatise it. He didn’t over-coach. He just said, “Choose the path you can live with.” Not instruction — permission.
- What They Actually Taught Me
None of them tried to reshape my life. None of them offered grand theories or emotional rescue.
Their contribution was far more grounded: they modelled how adults operate inside systems — with ethics, self-respect, awareness of limits, and an understanding of consequences.
They didn’t hand me a worldview. They gave me space and structure so I could construct my own.
That is the real gift: not guidance that imposes, but guidance that doesn’t get in your way while still keeping you aligned with reality.
In tennis coaching, the best players do the same — they don’t micromanage your strokes; they help you find your rhythm.
These three did that, each in their own imperfect, bounded, institution-shaped way.
And looking back, I can say this precisely: they didn’t save me, they didn’t “believe in me” in the cinematic sense — but they treated me with a level of respect that kept me functional until I grew into someone who could leave.