The coffee was burnt. The décor, forgettable—muted earth tones, a token abstract print on the wall. The air-conditioning droned overhead, numbing the space, while the espresso machine sputtered and sighed into the empty café. But the conversation was life-changing. I was twenty-two, sitting across from an attorney at Bloomberg in Hong Kong, trying to calibrate my enthusiasm, trying not to seem too eager, too green.

He sipped his espresso, glanced at a fancy watch, and then, just as I started doubting my ability to navigate this unfamiliar dynamic, he leaned forward and asked, “So, tell me about yourself?”

I assembled a well-rehearsed response about optimizing efficiencies at a consulting firm, made a performative nod toward international law, inflated my grasp of corporate deals, and entertained arbitration as if it had ever truly mattered to me. He smiled and quipped, “That’s a résumé answer. I mean—what are you really interested in and how can I help you?”

We talked about geopolitics, the merits of brutalist architecture, and our shared love of house and techno music. He had sharp opinions on all of them, but he listened. Gave me space to hesitate. Let me shape my thoughts as I spoke. The conversation lasted an hour. The connection, much longer. The relationship, years. 

He called me out of the blue to encourage me when I was disappointed with my first LSAT score. He told me to speak to more lawyers. Not to impress them, but to study them. To watch how they spoke. How they moved through rooms. When deciding between job offers, he gave me the kind of advice you don’t find in career guides—how to read between the lines of a firm’s culture, how to spot the places that grind associates down, how to choose not just a job, but a life. 

And more than that, he told me to write. To pay attention to the way words shape an argument, a contract, a career. To join law review. Not for the résumé line, but for the discipline. For the rigor of distilling something sprawling into something sharp. He made me see that knowing the law is never enough. You have to know how to use it, anticipate the places it will fail, and make people believe in you before they have a reason to.

This process wasn’t passive. With each interaction, I followed up. Sent emails, asked questions, circled back after conversations. If an article was recommended, I read it. If he told me to reach out to someone, I did. I didn’t just take advice—I showed him I was listening. And over time, that’s what built the relationship.

He wasn’t the only one. In New York, two corporate lawyers became a sounding board over baskets of dim sum, a quiet force when the recruitment cycle felt suffocating. In Hanoi, I met a fashion lawyer by chance—someone who helped me land my 1L summer job and has since become a dear friend. These relationships weren’t assigned. They weren’t pre-packaged either. I sought them out. Built them from conversations over coffee and wine, from late-night emails, from asking the right questions and, just as importantly, listening. 

Mentorship in law is often misunderstood. People assume it’s about patronage, a pipeline to better jobs, bigger firms. And while it can be that, its real value is quieter. It’s someone who tells you what you don’t know to ask. Someone who pulls you aside after a networking event and says, “Don’t introduce yourself like that—you sound rehearsed.” Someone who explains how the legal world actually works, beyond the pages of your casebooks. 

Law school can be a lonely place. The Socratic method thrives on dismantling your arguments, stripping away your ego, sometimes even your confidence. It teaches you to think, but not how to move through a career. This is where mentorship comes in. A good mentor bridges the gap between theory and practice. Helps you decide whether you belong in a courtroom or a boardroom. Whether you want to spend your days negotiating deals or litigating disputes. They teach you the nuances—how to juggle priorities when everything feels urgent, how to ask the right questions without second-guessing yourself, how to manage relationships in a workplace where perception is everything.

If you’re a law student looking for mentorship, don’t wait for it to be handed to you. It won’t come neatly packaged as an assigned advisor or a formal program. It’s something you build. It starts in the quiet moments after class, in a follow-up email to a speaker who made you think differently, in a second coffee chat after a successful first. It starts with curiosity. With authenticity. Ask the questions that stay with you long after the lecture ends, the ones without easy answers. Show people you’re not just looking for a connection—you’re looking to understand and learn. People respond to genuine interest, not rehearsed networking scripts. When someone gives you advice, follow it. Then come back with thoughts, reactions, and better questions. That’s how relationships form.

And don’t limit yourself to professors or partners at law firms. Some of the best guidance will come from an associate just a few years ahead of you, or from a public defender with a perspective you haven’t considered. Seek mentors from different paths. Let them show you what’s possible. And remember: mentorship isn’t just about asking for help—it’s about offering something in return, even if it’s just your attention, your gratitude, your ability to see the value in their story.

Mentorship is not about securing a single, all-knowing guide. It’s about collecting perspectives. It’s about stitching together an informal network of people who challenge you, who push you forward, who see something in you that you may not yet see in yourself.

If you do it right, if you learn to ask the right questions, one day someone will sit across from you—trying not to seem too eager, too green. And you’ll learn forward, asking, “So, tell me about yourself?”

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Christopher Tan is a second-year student at BC Law. Contact him at tanbw@bc.edu.