A Short Reflection on Writing Mentoring

This semester, as I complete the final module of Writing Mentoring, I find myself wanting to pause and take stock of what these past months have meant to me. For years, I hesitated to apply — despite several professors gently (and sometimes not so gently) insisting that I should. I always had a ready excuse: no time, too much studying, too big of an extracurricular commitment. In truth, I was afraid it would pull me away from my academic work.

In hindsight, I can say that none of these fears were justified. Writing Mentoring did not distract me; it sharpened me. It made my writing clearer, my teaching more confident, and my academic thinking more generous. It pushed me to articulate ideas I had previously only sensed, to explain concepts I had never tried to verbalize, and to trust that I could guide others through the very process that once intimidated me. And beyond the intellectual growth, it gave me something I did not expect: a small community of people I genuinely like, deeply respect, and with whom I suspect I may build friendships that last far beyond the university walls. (If not, I will at least have a group of people who can proofread my texts for the next decade, which is almost the same thing.)

But there is something even more important. For the first time since moving to Austria — and I say this with a mixture of gratitude and a little sadness — I became part of an institutional structure that was not only inclusive in theory, but inclusive in practice. Before Writing Mentoring, I honestly did not know what full inclusion looked like. I had seen gestures toward it, of course, and I do believe that university programs in Vienna strive sincerely for it. Yet, every now and then, I still encounter small moments of doubt directed at me — subtle hesitations, tiny pauses, things I notice only because I’ve experienced them too often. They are small, almost invisible, but they accumulate; they teach you to brace yourself, to prepare explanations in advance, to anticipate the moment when someone might question your competence.

Writing Mentoring, however, was different from the very first day. It believed — truly, wholeheartedly — in every single person who walked through its doors. It believed in their potential, their voice, their capacity to grow. And for the first time, I felt that where I come from did not matter in the slightest. No one questioned my ability to teach academic writing in languages that are not native to me. No one treated my background as a limitation. Instead, it was simply part of who I am — a detail, not a deficit. I did not have to prove myself twice or translate myself into something more palatable. I could simply be present, competent, and trusted.

That is the greatest gift Writing Mentoring has given me: the experience of belonging without having to negotiate for it. The quiet, steady certainty that I am trusted. The realization that inclusion is not a slogan but a practice — one that requires patience, humility, and a genuine belief in every student. It taught me that institutions can feel human, that structures can be warm, and that academic spaces can be places where people are not only evaluated but also encouraged, supported, and seen.

And so, as I finish this last module, I feel grateful. Grateful for the skills I gained, the friendships I formed, the confidence I discovered, and the small but transformative proof that institutions can, in fact, be places where everyone is welcomed — regardless of background, biography, or the imperfections we bring with us. Grateful, too, for the unexpected sense of home I found in a program I once feared would overwhelm me. It turns out that sometimes the things we avoid the longest are the very things that change us the most.