Mentor or Monster; When the Choreography of Power Becomes A Trap.

It starts, as these things so often do, with the invitation.

A glance. A compliment. The promise of shared rhythm.

“You’re different,” he says. “I see something in you.”

And just like that, you’re in the dance.

You don’t know yet that he’s chosen this song before. That the steps are rehearsed. That he only knows one kind of music, and it always ends with him alone in the spotlight.

At first, you try to follow. You’re earnest. Invested. Capable of carrying your weight and his, too, if needed. You want the routine to work. You want to create something beautiful. You want to believe that mentorship is still real. That partnership is possible. That people mean what they say.

But then the rhythm starts to break.

His lead falters, off-tempo and erratic. He forgets the next step, blames you for stumbling. You try to improvise. You adjust. You steady the pace. You hold the frame.

And instead of gratitude, he offers critique.

“Too fast.”

“Too forceful.”

“Too much.”

What he means is: too independent to control.

What he wants is not a partner, but a mirror. A reflection of greatness, not a challenger to it. He calls it teaching. He calls it guidance. But he demands submission.

He praises your grace in one breath and resents your balance in the next.

You begin to see it; the shadow behind the shape. The way his arm tightens when you glide. The flicker of rage when the audience claps for your form. The punishment that follows when you make it look too easy.

Because that’s the secret he never wanted you to learn:

He can’t actually dance.

And he only knows how to follow.

And when you stop covering for his missteps, the show starts to unravel. He blames the stage. The tempo. The costume. Anything but himself.

You try, still, to salvage the performance. You lower your light. You dim your range. You match his movements instead of following your own. You tell yourself it’s temporary. That maybe he’s just tired. Insecure. Misunderstood.

But eventually, the choreography turns violent.

He spins you into chaos, then asks why you’re dizzy.

He trips over his own feet, then demands an apology.

He insists it’s all part of the act. That great dancers clash. That genius is messy. That you should be grateful for the spotlight, even if it’s burning holes in your skin.

By now, you’re not dancing. You’re bracing.

And still, the music plays.

Until one day, you realize:

You’re the only one hearing it.

He stopped months ago. He’s been pantomiming. Performing mentorship like a role, repeating lines he’s used before, confident that you won’t notice. Confident that you won’t leave. Confident that your desire to build, to move with purpose, will keep you locked in the loop.

But you do notice.

You always have.

And one day, quietly, you let the music end.

Not with rage. Not with spectacle.

Just the sound of your own shoes walking off the stage.

Because there is no partnership where control is the goal.

No mentorship without reciprocity.

No dance when only one of you is free.

Some monsters don’t live under beds or in closets.

They live in conference rooms and corner offices.

They hold out their hand, and call it opportunity.

But what they want is your rhythm, your radiance, your reality, without ever having to earn it.

They are drawn to your light and determined to dim it.

And when they fail, they call you dangerous.

Let them.

There is no growth in a choreography designed to keep you small.

So let the curtain fall.

Not every dance is worth finishing.

And some were rigged from the opening step.