The guest list was as diverse and meaningful as the message itself—writers, artists, Uber drivers, executives, activists, lawyers, doctors, teachers, parents, diplomats, and a federal judge. Some had followed my work for years. Others arrived curious, open, and beautifully unfamiliar. Among them was my brilliant editor, Anne Barthel, who helped shape the manuscript into something both razor-sharp and deeply human. D.C. Crenshaw, editor of Fete Lifestyle Magazine, was also in attendance—his presence a reminder that thoughtful storytelling finds its way to those who value substance and style alike. Although Anne and Arica didn’t meet that evening, their spirits were quietly aligned—women of vision, depth, and exquisite discernment.
People traveled in from out of town. My family was there, my children beside me. And as I stood before this extraordinary gathering to give my book talk, I felt something shift.
I spoke about the origin of Stoic Empathy—how the seed was planted when I was a young girl in Iran, huddled under a doorframe with my parents during a missile strike, listening to the terrifying stillness between the blasts. I spoke about their courage. About the lessons in composure, compassion, and control I learned by their side. I spoke of how that early resilience took root in my professional life.
And then, I stepped into a space I rarely allow myself to enter—I let myself be seen. I spoke not just of strength, but of the fractures. The mistakes. The moments I faltered, misunderstood, or chose poorly. Not to dramatize, but to tell the truth. Not to impress, but to invite. And something quiet and powerful happened: people leaned in. Some wept. Others shared their own stories of breaking and becoming—of finding clarity in the rubble, and grace in the rebuild.