Seven Questions for Writing About Someone Who Taught You Something Without Ever Knowing

The yellow sticky note under my monitor has a curled edge and exactly four words on it: let me check again.

I stuck it there two years ago, in my own handwriting. It was the week I stopped working in the same team as Quang, and I noticed something odd: in the Monday meeting, when my new team lead asked something I was not sure about, my mouth said "let me check on that." It was not a sentence I had made up. It was Quang's, sitting inside me since who knows when.

If you have ever caught yourself saying a sentence, making a gesture, or keeping a habit that you realize is not really yours, this is for you. It is seven questions to write down about someone who taught you something simply by living in front of you, and who may never have known it.

This is not a thank-you letter, and it is not a search for a perfectly admirable teacher. The person you write about might be someone you saw only briefly, a former colleague, a neighbor. They do not have to be skilled or good in every way. And if the person who comes to mind is someone who hurt you, this does not ask you to find a lesson in that. You can choose someone else, or leave this for another day.

Why is something you learned so hard to see?

Monday morning, 9:15, a small meeting room with an air conditioner humming. My new team lead asked about a bug in last week's update. I was holding a plastic cup of iced milk coffee, my fingers cold from the ice sweating on the outside, and I heard myself say: "I'm not sure about this one, let me check and get back to you." He nodded, wrote it down, and the meeting moved on. It went so smoothly that it took me a moment to realize I had just done something I would not have done three years earlier. Back then I would have guessed an answer that sounded sure, then worried about it all through the meeting.

"Quang, I got this part wrong."

"Right. Let me look at it again with you."

"Why didn't you just tell me to fix it?"

"I don't know how to fix it either, yet. Faster if we look together."

That is the part I remember almost word for word, from a Friday afternoon back when I was new to the team. He said it and turned back to his screen, no advice about how to live, no punchline. I only saw a man nine years older than me say "I don't know yet" without breaking into pieces.

I first assumed the reason I had never thought about this was that I had forgotten to be grateful. That was not it. What makes it hard to see lies deeper: what you learn from someone, after a while, stops carrying their label and starts carrying yours. It becomes "my personality". I did not see "this is how Quang talks", I only saw "this is how I talk". To look at it again I had to make it hold still long enough to read the old label. Writing it on paper does that, because words do not run along with your thoughts.

The first time, most people take about three minutes just to begin, staring at the empty page wondering what to write. After a few lines, things usually speed up. Some people feel their eyes sting or find themselves smiling without noticing, and others feel quite ordinary. After a week, if you reread it, some people see that one of their habits has a name on it, some have not found one yet, and that is fine. On a busy day: one sentence, "this person taught me about…", then stop. One sentence is enough.

Here is where many people slip: writing a hymn of praise, every line "he was so wonderful, so admirable", and then feeling hollow. It is tempting because it sounds like what you should say about someone you value, and adjectives are quick to write. But adjectives teach you nothing, while a small gesture does. Ask instead: what did they do, where, what was in their hand. And do not polish a sentence to sound good, because a polished sentence has usually passed through a filter.

Seven questions, moving from them to you

Looking at them first

The first three questions look outward, because that is easier. Three to five lines per question is plenty.

Question one: Who is this person, and when did you first notice them? Hint: just one scene. Where they stood, what was in their hand, what you were doing at that moment. No need to say yet what they were good at.

Question two: What small thing did they do that you still remember? Hint: the smaller the better. The way they folded a piece of paper, a curt answer, a time they waited for you without checking the clock.

Question three: What did they often say, or how did they say it? Hint: write the exact words if you still have them. If not, write "something like", that still works.

I wrote my answer to question two in six lines: Quang had a habit of setting a cup of coffee down on the desk of whoever sat next to him when they were upset, saying nothing. I do not know why that detail surfaced. It surfaced, that is all.

Under these questions lies something I only saw on the second draft: what we remember about someone is usually not what they were proud of. He does not remember putting down that coffee. It was small to him and large to me. That gap is why this piece says "without ever knowing".

Where people tend to slip in this part: writing like a file, name, age, job title, year of birth. It is tempting because it is tidy and looks accurate. But a file has no cup of coffee in it. Write instead as if you were telling a friend.

Then turning to look at yourself

The next four turn inward. They may be harder, and you may want to stop partway. Stopping is fine.

Question four: What did you learn from them, and where are you using it now? Hint: find one time in the past week. If you cannot, write "haven't seen it", that is also a true answer.

Question five: Is there something about them you do not want to copy? Hint: nobody is complete. Writing this is not disrespect, it is how you know which parts you chose to carry.

Question six: If they knew you learned that, how do you guess they would react, and how sure are you? Hint: notice the word "guess". If they are no longer here, or no longer in touch, this one may feel heavy. Skipping it is fine.

Question seven: Is there one small thing you did this week to carry that on, even once? Hint: no need to message them. Carrying it on can be you saying the same sentence to someone else when they need it.

I stayed on question five for a long time. Quang had one habit I did not want to learn: he rarely said it straight when he disagreed, he just went quiet. It made me guess wrong about what he meant many times. Writing it out showed me that I had carried the "let me check again" part and left the "quiet" part behind. That turned out to be a choice I had made, not something that came naturally.

I used to think writing these things down would weigh on me. Not exactly. Some people find question seven the lightest because it gives the hands something to do, and others find question six stays with them longest. Everyone is different.

The first time, seven questions usually do not finish in twenty minutes, and that is normal. After about a week, if you open the page again, some people find the line they underlined now means something different, and some read it and want to write about someone else. Some never reopen it, and that is fine too. If you are very busy, do only question one and question four: who it was, and what of theirs you are using.

Here is where many people slip when they are nearly done: taking the page away to turn it into a post, or a polished message to send to them. It is tempting because once you have written something it feels like it should be useful, and because everyone wants others to know they are grateful. But this paper was written for you first. If at some point you truly want to message them, write a new one, shorter, rather than pasting the draft.

These seven questions sit beside seven questions for writing a thank-you to yourself like two doors into the same room, and if you like writing at the end of the day, seven mindfulness questions for the end of the day is another rhythm to try.

If you wrote and it did not work

There are two reasons that come up often, and neither means you did anything wrong.

The first: at some question it gets heavy. The person you thought of has died, or is far away, or something between you was never fully said. Then stop. Switch to someone lighter, like a former colleague, a shopkeeper you know, or simply leave the page for another day. There is no required order, and no question is worth forcing yourself through just to finish.

The second: you finish and it feels empty, all general statements. Usually that is because questions two and three still have no scene. Go back, replace an adjective with a concrete object: the cup, the way they sat, their voice in that moment. Then rewrite exactly one sentence.

And if writing about this person leaves you sad for weeks, or so heavy it affects your eating, sleeping or work, then talking to a professional is worth doing. Not because you wrote it wrong, but because some kinds of missing someone need another person to sit and listen with you.

My yellow note is still under the monitor, its edge curled a little more.

Yesterday a new teammate asked me something I was not sure about, and I heard myself say: "Let me check again with you."