These are personal stories expressed from the perspective of the authors from around the world thus contributing perspectives of many cultures. The object is to learn from such diverse voices. We hope these stories of love, grief, determination, and resilience foster empathy and insight on how to more effectively manage our family dynamics. We do basic fact checking to assure that the stories are based on real incidents related to the author. The author can choose to be anonymous. We ask the authors to be respectful while not losing the authenticity of the take-away from the story. The story is the opinion of the author and not of the Foundation. Share you story.
- Becoming Her PersonI never asked to be anyone’s role model. Especially not hers. From the beginning, it was always unspoken—this expectation that I’d be there, that I’d know better, that I’d lead. But I was just a kid too. Only a few years older, barely figuring out how to keep my own head above water. And yet,… Read more: Becoming Her Person
- In This HousePeople often say happiness is something big, loud, and sparkling. But for me, it’s always found in the quiet moments. I wake up to the soft rustle of my mom watering her plants, humming a song she probably made up on the spot. The smell of breakfast sneaks through the hallway, and I know the… Read more: In This House
- Thread of the QuiltSome pieces are soft— like Mama’s old sari, faded at the edges but still smelling of cardamom and rain. I sewed that at first, because love should always go to the center. She held me through exam stress, heartbreak, and the silence of being the only daughter in a house that echoes louder for boys.… Read more: Thread of the Quilt
- Things I Never Asked ForEveryone thinks I’m lucky. Born into wealth, legacy, power. The “golden boy” of a business empire that spans cities, continents, boardrooms, that I’ve never even stepped into. From the outside, my life is a dream—designer suits, private schools, first-class flights. A future already paved in marble. But they don’t see the cost.They don’t see me.… Read more: Things I Never Asked For
- The Luxury of LonelinessPeople think I have everything. I live in a private dorm that feels more like a suite in a five-star hotel—glass windows, smart lights, a walk-in closet full of expensive clothes I barely wear. My tuition is paid in full, my car’s always polished, and I carry the latest phone before most people even know it’s… Read more: The Luxury of Loneliness
- Raised by a StrangerI don’t remember the last time my parents tucked me into bed. Maybe when I was three or four. But even then, I think it was Alina, my nanny, who held my hand as I drifted off to sleep. My parents are always busy—meetings, flights, late-night calls. They live in the same house as me,… Read more: Raised by a Stranger
- The Space She Left BehindThe world feels quieter now. Not in the way that bedtime silence settles over a room, but in a way that stretches through every moment, filling spaces where a voice used to be, where laughter once lived. The mornings aren’t the same. There’s no soft humming in the kitchen, no gentle hands smoothing out wrinkles… Read more: The Space She Left Behind
- A life in two worlds: NYC apartment & my Jersey houseHaving divorced parents is a complex experience—one that shapes the way you view family, love, and stability. It’s not necessarily a tragic story, nor is it always an easy one. It’s an experience that comes with contradictions: relief and sadness, love and resentment, independence and longing. I was young when my parents split, too young… Read more: A life in two worlds: NYC apartment & my Jersey house
- The Art of Being PerfectIn a world where everything glittered, I was the polish that made it shine brighter. Or at least, that’s what I was raised to be. Perfection wasn’t an option; it was an expectation. My mother didn’t just demand it—she built it, sculpted it, shaped it into every inch of my being. I was her finest… Read more: The Art of Being Perfect
- Labeled a Brat, Built for MoreIf there was one word people used to describe me as a child, it was stubborn. I had opinions, and I made sure everyone knew them. If I wanted something and someone told me no, I didn’t just accept it—I fought for it. Loudly. Dramatically. Sometimes with tears, sometimes with arguments that made absolutely no sense… Read more: Labeled a Brat, Built for More
- My Dad owns the CofferAfter my grandmother died, my aunt and I cleared out her home. It was a very tiny place, and we liked to refer to it as a cottage. There wasn’t much space, but it took my aunt and me about two years to fully empty it due to the sheer amount of stuff my grandmother… Read more: My Dad owns the Coffer