Sarah cornered me in the break room, coffee in hand, desperation in her eyes.
“Just five minutes?”
I already knew where this was going. Another mentoring request. Another coffee chat. Another hour I didn’t have.
For years, I had been the go-to person for every woman struggling with workplace politics, impostor syndrome, and career roadblocks. It used to feel like a duty. Then it started feeling like a second job.
Saying no was supposed to fix that.
But as I looked at Sarah, her fingers gripping her paper cup like a life raft, I sighed.
“Fine. Five minutes.”
Ten minutes later, we were at Starbucks. She talked, I listened, she took notes, I nodded. The entire conversation was predictable, right down to the part where she said, “I just don’t know who else to ask.”
Walking back to the office, I felt it again — that creeping sense of obligation, the weight of being the woman in leadership who always had to help.
This was why I’d stopped saying yes.
The unspoken obligation
My role as a senior leader came with clear responsibilities: managing projects, developing strategies, and guiding my team toward success.
But an unofficial job description shadowed me: counselor, coach, and emotional support system for every junior woman in the company.
My calendar filled with requests for “quick coffee chats” from female employees seeking guidance on workplace politics, difficult colleagues, and career advancement.
Each promotion amplified these expectations. While other senior leaders spent afternoons in strategy meetings, my schedule overflowed with unofficial mentoring. Between project deadlines and team meetings, I squeezed in conversations about impostor syndrome and gender bias.
My male colleagues advanced their work uninterrupted by these demands.
This pattern reflected a broader issue in corporate culture. Female leaders often carried a double workload — their actual job responsibilities plus the emotional labor of supporting other women.
Male colleagues praised my “natural nurturing abilities” while failing to recognize how this additional burden impacted my work capacity.
The mental toll grew heavier as my influence increased. Junior women saw me as their lifeline, sharing vulnerable stories about discrimination and harassment. Each conversation left me carrying their pain alongside my own experiences.
The weight of their trust and need for support became overwhelming.
Breaking under the burden
I told myself I could handle both. That I could be the mentor everyone needed without sacrificing my work.
But I couldn’t.
The breaking point arrived during a critical project launch. My team needed focused leadership to meet our deadlines. The project’s success would determine next year’s budget and our ability to hire more staff. Every detail required careful attention to prevent mistakes that could cost the company millions.
Instead, three different women had booked mentoring sessions that week. One wanted advice about a promotion, another needed help with a difficult manager, and the third sought guidance on work-life balance.
When I tried rescheduling, my inbox pinged with a message:
“What happened to women supporting women? I thought you’d understand.”
That night, I sat at my desk, staring at the words on the screen. I thought you’d understand. The guilt clawed at me, but beneath it, something else stirred — anger.
Not at the women, but at a system that made me responsible for holding them up while my own foundation crumbled.
This wasn’t sustainable. If I kept this up, I wouldn’t just fail them — I’d fail myself, my team, and everything I had worked for.
The next morning, in a key presentation, I missed critical questions from senior leadership because my mind wandered to the morning’s emotional mentoring session. My team noticed my distraction, their concerned glances following me through the halls.
The gender-based expectation to nurture and support had infiltrated my professional world, threatening not just my success but my entire team’s.
The project timeline slipped. While I sat in Starbucks discussing someone else’s career path, my own team struggled without clear direction. My male counterparts focused solely on their work, while I juggled an invisible second job that drained my energy and focus.
Something had to change.
Making the change
At first, guilt kept me from drawing boundaries. The women who had guided my early career appeared in my thoughts — their generosity had shaped my path. Was I betraying their investment by setting limits now?
But the mounting pressure forced a decision.
I drafted careful guidelines: no impromptu mentoring sessions, no career coaching over coffee, no serving as an unofficial therapist for workplace challenges. My time needed to focus on my core responsibilities and team objectives.
The decision felt both necessary and painful.
The backlash hit hard.
Former mentees passed me in hallways without acknowledgment. Messages circulated about my “betrayal of female solidarity.” One colleague cornered me by the elevators.
“Who helped you get where you are? Don’t you feel obligated to pay it forward?”
Each criticism stung because it echoed my own doubts. Countless nights I lay awake questioning whether I’d made the right choice.
But watching my own growth stall while trying to lift everyone else wasn’t sustainable.
Rising while supporting differently
My next leadership meeting marked the beginning of a new approach. Without three mentoring sessions consuming my preparation time, I delivered a thorough analysis that impressed senior management.
My recommendations shaped company strategy for the next year. Leaders who had previously overlooked me now sought my input.
Within six months, my team’s success metrics improved significantly. My professional contributions doubled, and I found time to create resources that helped junior team members grow their skills independently.
A major promotion followed — the first woman in our division to reach that level.
Instead of draining one-on-one sessions, I built guides and documentation that anyone could reference. My feedback became more thorough, helping everyone on the team advance their skills.
My influence actually expanded by becoming more focused. When I did offer guidance, it came from a place of energy and engagement rather than exhaustion.
The guilt began to fade as I saw how this new approach benefited both me and my colleagues.
Finding balance through structure
The solution wasn’t abandoning all support for other women — it was creating sustainable ways to lift each other up.
After discussing the challenges with company leadership, I helped establish a formal mentorship program. The initiative matched junior employees with senior leaders across all genders, with clear boundaries and time commitments.
Monthly group sessions replaced endless one-on-one coffee meetings. This framework transformed scattered emotional labor into structured professional development.
The burden shifted from individual women to the organization itself. Mentoring became part of leadership responsibilities, not an extra tax on female success.
The structured approach revealed how broken the previous system had been. Women no longer had to hunt down informal mentors or feel guilty about asking for help. Men who had previously stayed on the sidelines began actively participating in developing junior talent.
The organization’s culture slowly shifted as mentorship became everyone’s responsibility.
Beyond gender-based obligations
My decision challenged a damaging assumption: that female leaders must sacrifice their advancement to support others.
Male executives mentor strategically, choosing opportunities that align with their goals and bandwidth. Women deserve that same agency — without the weight of guilt that often accompanies setting boundaries.
Choosing career advancement didn’t mean failing others. It meant leading differently.
Now, when Sarah catches me in the break room, I don’t just redirect her to program resources. I share how the structured mentorship program helped me maintain boundaries while still supporting others’ growth.
The guilt hasn’t completely vanished. But now, when I walk past the break room, I don’t feel the weight of unspoken expectations. Instead, I see Sarah leading a meeting with confidence, armed with the resources we’ve built.
I’m still supporting women. Just differently. And better.
