What happens when you stop asking for permission—and just start creating?
I’m an actor who’s lived a few lives. A Shakespeare monologue at 14 for my high school acting troupe cracked open a door I’ve never stopped walking through. I’ve been a journalist, a novelist, a high-performance coach to executives and business leaders. But no matter the form, the mission’s always been the same:
Tell the truth.
Move people.
Remind them of what’s hidden- and possible- inside all of us.
I grew up in a Bengali-Canadian household that looked picture-perfect on the outside—while crumbling secretly behind closed doors under the weight of untreated mental illness and ignored trauma. That kind of upbringing doesn’t hand you a clear identity. But it does make you fiercely aware of the power of story—how it can confine you or free you. Shatter you or rebuild you.
For me, acting was never just a craft. It was survival.
And the stage was the first true place that really felt like home. Like a safe harbor in the storm.
You may know me from my novel The Isolation Door (2014), or my years of coaching high-level leaders into life-changing roles. But this chapter? It’s all about performance. Owning your story. Feeling something real and passing that on to others. Upholding our shared human connection and humanity no matter how much A.I. shit and technological nonsense and sheer NOISE tries to drown it out.