Why Mentors Should Believe the Best About Kids
The Door That Opened After the Third Knock
The first door I knocked on belonged to a woman named Mrs. Laverne, and I remember feeling awkward before she ever answered. I was standing outside an apartment in a neighborhood I did not know well, holding two bottles of water, a pack of snacks from the corner store, and a question that sounded simple in my head until I had to say it out loud.
When the door opened, Mrs. Laverne looked at me through the screen with one hand on the handle and one eyebrow raised. I told her my name, explained why I was there, and then asked, “Would you be willing to tell me your story?”
She stared at me for a second. I would have stared too. If some guy had shown up at my door asking that, I would have wondered what he really wanted.
But Mrs. Laverne opened the screen door a few inches wider. She did not invite me in yet, but she did begin to talk. She told me about the kids in the complex, the nights that felt loud, the mothers doing their best, the boys who needed somewhere safe to go after school, and the basketball court that nobody used anymore because the weeds had grown up around the fence and one of the rims had been bent for months.
That first conversation led to another one, then another. I met a teenager named DeShawn who said there was nothing to do after school except “get bored or get in trouble.” I met a grandmother named Mrs. Anita who knew every child by name and could tell you who needed food, who needed a ride, and who needed somebody to sit on the porch and listen.
I walked in thinking I might learn a few needs. I walked away realizing that I had carried more assumptions than I wanted to admit.
The people there did not need me to arrive with answers. They needed me to come close enough to hear what was already true.
What I Thought They Needed
I have made this mistake in mentoring more than once. I see a kid, a family, or a neighborhood, and I start filling in the blanks before I have earned the right to hold the pencil.
It usually comes from a good place. I want to help. I want to bring support, encouragement, structure, or opportunity. I want things to get better, and I can convince myself that my desire to help gives me clear vision.
But good intentions can still create distance.
When I assume I know what someone needs, I stop listening as carefully. I begin responding to the version of the story I built in my own mind. I may offer something generous, but if it does not connect to the real need, it can feel like I valued my perspective more than their lived experience.
That can happen with a whole community, and it can happen with one mentee sitting across from me.
A young person shuts down, and I decide they do not care. A kid talks back, and I decide they are disrespectful. A mentee misses a meeting, and I decide they are not serious about the relationship. Each assumption may feel reasonable in the moment, but assumptions rarely tell the whole story.
Kids from hard places have often lived under adults who misunderstood them. They know what it feels like to be labeled, managed, corrected, or controlled by people who never took time to know their story.
If I step into that same pattern, even with care in my heart, I may confirm the very fear they already carry: adults do not really see me.
DeShawn Was Tired of Being Solved
DeShawn was the kind of teenager people noticed quickly. He was funny, sharp, and good at saying the one thing that could make a room laugh or tighten in seconds.
At first, I thought DeShawn needed direction. He skipped activities, made sarcastic comments, and acted like nothing impressed him. If somebody announced a plan, DeShawn could find the hole in it before the sentence ended.
One afternoon, I asked him why he always had something negative to say. I thought I was being direct. DeShawn looked at me and said, “Because y’all already decided what this place needs before asking anybody who lives here.”
That sentence stung because it was true.
DeShawn was not rejecting help. He was rejecting the feeling of being solved by people who had not listened. He had watched adults come and go with ideas that sounded good from the outside, and he had learned to protect himself with skepticism.
That day gave me a different lens. DeShawn’s sarcasm was still hard to deal with, and his attitude still affected the room. But underneath the behavior was a young man who wanted dignity. He wanted the people helping his neighborhood to treat him like a person with insight, not a problem with symptoms.
Believing the best about DeShawn did not mean pretending his words never hurt. It meant pausing long enough to ask what pain or wisdom might be hiding behind the edge in his voice.
Listening Changes the Room
When I lead with listening, I get invited into reality instead of projecting my assumptions onto it.
That shift changes everything. I become slower to speak and quicker to notice. I ask better questions. I stop trying to force my idea of help into a situation and begin paying attention to what the person has already been trying to say.
In that apartment complex, two different ideas came to the surface. An outsider might have suggested more programs, more classes, or more structured opportunities. Those ideas could have been useful at some point.
The people who lived there kept talking about the court.
They wanted a safe place for kids to play. They wanted the broken rim fixed, the weeds cleared, and the space cleaned up so boys like DeShawn could be outside after school without wandering into trouble. The need sounded less impressive than a large initiative, but it came from the people who knew the place best.
That is how mentoring often works. The thing a mentee needs may seem smaller than the thing I planned. They may need a ride before they need advice. They may need a calm question before they need correction. They may need me to remember what they told me last week before they can trust me with what happened last night.
Listening keeps me from turning help into control.
Believing the Best Takes Work
Believing the best about kids sounds easy until their behavior makes it hard.
It sounds good in a training room, but it becomes much harder when a mentee lies, mouths off, cancels again, ignores your text, or says something that hits a nerve. In those moments, my mind starts building a case quickly.
They do not care. They are being lazy. They are trying to get attention. They always do this.
Those thoughts may feel accurate, but they are often incomplete. Believing the best means I slow the story down before I let it harden into judgment.
That does not remove accountability. If DeShawn disrespects someone, we talk about it. If a mentee makes a harmful choice, we address it. Believing the best gives accountability a better starting point.
Instead of saying, “What is wrong with you?” I can ask, “What happened before this?” Instead of assuming motive, I can say, “Help me see what I am missing.” Instead of letting one moment define a young person, I can remember that behavior often has a backstory.
That posture keeps dignity in the room.
The Story I Bring With Me
I have also learned that my ability to believe the best about someone else is connected to what I am carrying inside myself.
If I feel insecure, I become more reactive. If I feel like I need to prove myself, I become more controlling. If I need the mentoring relationship to make me feel effective, then a mentee’s resistance can feel like personal rejection.
That is a dangerous place to mentor from.
Before I can offer security to a young person, I need to remember where my own security comes from. I am loved by God before I produce anything useful. I am accepted before I get the result I hoped for. I am not mentoring to prove my worth.
When I live from that truth, I can be more patient with a mentee who is still finding their way. I can listen without needing to win. I can apologize without defending myself. I can hold a hard conversation without making the young person responsible for my emotions.
Mentoring from security allows me to stay curious when my pride wants to take over.
Repair Builds Trust
There have been times when I said something with good intent, but it landed poorly. My first instinct was to explain what I meant, defend my heart, and make sure the other person knew I was trying to help.
That response rarely repairs anything.
If my words hurt a mentee, my intent matters less in that moment than the impact. I can say, “I see how that came across. I am sorry. I should have said that differently.”
That kind of repair teaches something powerful. It tells a young person that relationships can survive honesty. It tells them that adults can own their mistakes. It tells them that being wrong does not mean disappearing or doubling down.
At the same time, I want to extend grace to their intent. If DeShawn says something sharp, I can hold him accountable and still ask what he meant. I can be honest about how it landed while staying curious about what he was trying to communicate.
Trust grows when I own my impact and pursue their intent with patience.
Ways to Believe the Best This Week
Ask a question that opens a door
Start with a question that invites a real answer. Instead of asking, “How are you?” try, “What has been heavy this week?” or, “What is something people keep missing about you lately?”
Pause before you build a story
When behavior triggers you, take a breath before deciding what it means. Ask yourself what else could be true. That pause can keep your response grounded and calm.
Let their words guide your help
If a mentee tells you what they need, take it seriously. Do not replace their answer with the solution you already preferred. Respect grows when young people see that their words shape your response.
Speak identity while addressing behavior
Correction can still carry dignity. You can say, “That choice hurt the group, and I know you are capable of leading in a better way.”
Ask for feedback without defending yourself
Ask your mentee, “Is there anything I do that makes it harder for you to talk to me?” Then listen. The answer may be uncomfortable, but it can open the door to deeper trust.
Repair quickly when you miss it
Apologize when your words or tone cause harm. A simple, honest apology can become one of the clearest pictures of humility a mentee sees.
The Court Behind the Fence
A few weeks after those first conversations, I stood with DeShawn near the old basketball court. The grass had grown through the cracks, the fence leaned in one corner, and the bent rim hung low enough that even the younger kids complained about it.
DeShawn pointed at it and said, “See, this is what I’m talking about.”
He was not giving a speech. He was showing me his reality.
That court helped me see the whole lesson again. Believing the best starts with listening. Listening leads to clarity. Clarity leads to help that actually honors the people we are trying to serve.
The same is true with every mentee.
If I begin with assumptions, I may move quickly and still miss the person. If I begin with story, I may move slower, but I will move with more love.
Kids do not need mentors who have them figured out before the relationship begins. They need mentors willing to knock, ask, listen, repair, and keep believing there is more beneath the surface than the behavior in front of us.
That is how trust grows. That is how dignity is protected. That is how mentoring becomes a place where a young person can finally feel seen.
Discussion Questions
What assumptions do you tend to make when a mentee behaves in a way that frustrates you? Write one alternate explanation that would help you respond with more patience.
Where do you need to listen before offering help? Ask one question this week that gives your mentee room to tell you what is really going on.
How secure are you in your own identity when mentoring feels slow or difficult? Name one truth from God that can help you mentor from peace instead of pressure.
