“Do It”, The Last Thing My Mentor Told Me

Before the pandemic, when online meetings and virtual learning became commonplace, developing yourself in the arts often depended on finding a mentor. For me, taking poetry seriously meant showing up to literary events, cafés, and open readings, holding my pages tightly and asking strangers if they could guide me. It wasn’t easy.

I moved from place to place, asking poets to read my work, hoping someone would see something worth shaping. Over time, the process became exhausting, and I started to question whether I should continue at all. Then I met Celina, a Nicaraguan poet living in Italy. From the moment she read my work, she believed in me. “You’ll write a book someday, and I’ll be proud,” she said. It was the first time someone spoke about my future with certainty. Celina went back to Rome, so we stayed connected through emails and Skype calls. Despite the distance, her presence was constant until one message changed everything: “Aura, cancer is back.”

After that, our conversations became less frequent. Then one day, I received an email unlike the others, it was direct and intentional. She shared what she called all her “secrets” to becoming a published author and listed people she trusted who could mentor me after her. At the end, she wrote what she had always told me, but this time with urgency: “You’ll write a book someday, and I’ll be proud–but do it!” I knew it was goodbye.

A month later, she passed away. I never reached out to the people on that list. I didn’t find another mentor. Instead, I kept writing on my own, with her final message pinned on a corkboard in front of my desk, where it remains to this day. Following final instructions is not easy. Doing things alone can feel paralyzing. Starting means accepting that the person who guided you, that safe place, is no longer there.

That feeling reminds me of Ascension Day. As described in Acts of the Apostles (1:1–11), Jesus ascends after instructing his disciples to wait and trust that they will become his witnesses. The focus shifts from his presence to their responsibility. They had been used to following Jesus everywhere. Then suddenly, they couldn’t, but they were still expected to continue.

In my own way, I understand that shift.

Celina’s final email gave me responsibility. For a long time, I reread her words instead of acting on them. Back then, writing a book felt as distant as “all nations.” But the story doesn’t end with hesitation. This is what the writer Joseph Campbell describes as “the hero’s journey”, (the universal narrative structure): every story starts with receiving a calling and accepting it.

The disciples took on the call and moved, not perfectly or without fear, but faithfully. So did I. I didn’t become fearless. I didn’t suddenly feel ready. I just started, slowly, holding on to the words she left behind. There is a quiet trembling courage in saying yes to a calling. Sometimes, you become your own hero. Other times, you become the reason someone else’s life changes.

I’m thankful for those who take on their mission despite fear: a woman inviting others to Bible study in her nursing home, young people serving on mission trips, people who understand it’s never too late to enter seminary. Their steps may not reach all nations, but they reach someone. And sometimes, that is where everything changes.

And in those moments, I’m reminded that we are never alone when we take on a mission, the One who calls us always prepares the way.