Growing up poor, dinner was often just toast and cheese. At 12, I visited a friend’s fancy house where her mom humiliated me for holding a knife “wrong,” exposing my shame of being “less than.” That moment stuck, but my mom’s wisdom—“One day, you’ll sit at your own table”—ignited something in me.
We lived above a laundromat in Glendale. My mom cleaned houses; my brother worked to help with bills. I escaped through library books and, at 15, worked at a Persian bakery, learning kindness from the owner. High school was tough—poverty was a target—but I studied hard, earning a scholarship and leaving home at 17.
College meant learning to navigate a world of privilege. That knife moment lingered, so I took an etiquette class to reclaim my confidence. I worked relentlessly, interning every summer, and by 25, joined a logistics firm. I moved my mom into a better home, her joy unforgettable.
At 28, I started “Kind Hands,” a catering side hustle inspired by my bakery days. It grew, and one day, I delivered desserts to my old friend, Shayla, who didn’t recognize me. Later, at a school event, I shared my story of building a welcoming table. Shayla was there, confused but silent.
Now, “Kind Hands” thrives, and my mom helps bake. We decide who sits at our table—only the hungry and humble.
