Each year I pick a word that sets my intention for the new year. This year I was struggling with my one word, until a gift arrived on my doorstep on Christmas Day.

Over Thanksgiving we had a family reunion: 60 family members, from as far as Malaysia and Singapore, ages 5 months to 87 years, gathered on the Chesapeake Bay for four days of gratitude and celebration. Amir Sulaiman’s powerful poem “You Will Be Someone’s Ancestor” couldn’t have been more poignant.

The night before my birthday, my son asked me to reflect on what memories I’m excited to make in the next 20 years, from age 58 to 78, especially if there are no limitations or obligations. I loved his question as it gave me a chance to dream and wonder.

How we tell our story to ourselves and to the world gives us agency and provides us with the most potent panacea of all—hope.

The traditional way to celebrate the end of a cancer treatment is to ring a bell, but my way is to experience a story… How do people survive such heartbreak, let alone create something beautiful out of it?

But before the process of proton radiation begins each day, I'm always asked one question: What music do you want to listen to?

I have no illusion that these paintings are any good at all. And that is absolutely fine with me.

I’ve always had ‘big hair’—thick, wavy, and full; the kind that hairdressers and aunties always complimented. But what happens when you lose your hair completely.

I have never been more surprised in my life, or more moved by an act of kindness showered on me.

To be honest, I wasn’t expecting the deep, specific, personal, wide-ranging guidance that you’ve been sharing, in response to my query about what helps you get through hard times.

Four days were packed with some of the most serious somber issues I’ve ever faced—and some of the most joyous simple moments I can remember. Isn’t that life. The beautiful and the cruel, the light and the weighty, the happy and the sad all wrapped inextricably together.

It’s been a difficult few weeks. As the focus of my writing is sharing our personal stories, I wanted to let you know about what I’ve been facing.

Who knew that one day I would become a storyseeker and “only connect” would become my mantra.

Abderrahim caught sight of the Arabic tattooed on Zayd’s biceps; I whispered to him to cover it up …

Loss cannot be expressed with a concise, terse number, no matter the number of digits it contains. Each person lost is a life story.

It’s hard to write a ‘humanKIND’ newsletter when we are witnessing daily acts of inhumanity. Perhaps what I can offer is a place of refuge—a place to gather to dare to hope, as we continue to agitate for peace.

It was a challenging summer, mainly with health issues—my father-in-law’s, my mom’s, my own. But it was an unexpected trip at the end of the summer that helped me put things in perspective.

My father-in-law was always a man of few words. But even without words, his presence was felt in any situation, through his dignity, solemnity, and elegant demeanor.

Elyas and Latifa had been wanting to have us over for an Afghan lunch for months, as a gesture of gratitude to KindWorks for setting up their apartment when they first arrived in the U.S

It is so meaningful for me to receive your messages on how a particular story I shared moved you. Some of you even share your own personal stories in response