At the end of the retreat, we were each given a card. The invitation was to write a few personal words for every person who had been there.

We had only spent a few days together, but those days had held long conversations, shared meals, laughter, discomfort, creativity, vulnerability, and the kind of connection that forms when people are willing to show up without knowing exactly how they will be received.

I sat with each card and tried to think about what I had noticed. I thought about how they had made the space feel. I thought about the person who made it easier to laugh. The person whose honesty gave other people permission to be honest too. The person whose energy brought warmth into the room. The person who asked thoughtful questions. When I received my own card, I was able to see myself through the words of other people.

It was a beautiful experience. Most of us spend so much time seeing ourselves from the inside. We know the conversations we replay, the ways we think we could have said something better, and the moments when we felt awkward.

Other people do not always see all of that. They experience our presence. They remember whether they could breathe around us. Whether they felt heard. Whether they felt judged or accepted. Reading the card made me wonder how often we think about the experience other people have around us.

We spend a lot of time asking who we want to become. We create goals around our careers, relationships, health, creativity, and personal growth. We think about the life we want to build and the milestones we hope to reach. But we do not always ask: How do I want people to feel when they are with me?

It moves us away from image and toward impact. You can be accomplished and still make people feel small. You can be generous and still make others feel as though they owe you something.

The opposite is also true. You may not always have the perfect words, but people can feel your care. You may not solve someone’s problem, but the way you listen can remind them that they are not alone. We often underestimate these forms of impact because they are difficult to measure.

There is no certificate for making someone feel welcome. Of course, we cannot control how everyone experiences us. Every person sees us through their own history, expectations, needs, and emotions. Someone may misunderstand us even when our intentions are good. The goal is not to manage everyone’s perception.

It is not to become endlessly agreeable, available, or easy to be around. Wanting people to feel safe with you does not mean abandoning your boundaries. In fact, the presence we want to offer others has to include honesty.

There is a difference between making people comfortable and making people feel respected. Sometimes respect sounds like listening. Sometimes it means giving someone space. Sometimes it means setting a boundary without punishing them for having needs.

When someone is around me, do I want them to feel as though they need to impress me, or do I want them to feel that they can arrive as they are?

Do I listen because I am waiting for my turn to speak, or because I genuinely want to understand? Do my actions create the feeling I say I value?

These questions are not always comfortable because our intentions and our impact do not perfectly match. We may value connection while constantly checking our phone during conversations. The purpose of reflection is not to criticize every interaction. It is to notice the space between who we hope to be and how we are currently showing up.

Sometimes other people’s words reveal qualities we have forgotten about ourselves. There are parts of us that become visible through relationship. We cannot always see the effect of our own presence while we are inside it.

That card reminded me that identity is not only built through the stories we tell ourselves. It is also reflected back to us through the people who have witnessed us.

Not every opinion needs to become part of how we define ourselves. But when the same words appear repeatedly, they may be worth paying attention to.

What do the people who know you well consistently say about you?

What do they come to you for?

What changes in a room when you enter it?

What becomes easier for people in your presence?

There is another side to this too.

If you asked the people closest to you how they feel around you, would their answers align with the person you are trying to be?

How do they feel?

Do they feel listened to?

Do they feel free to disagree?

Do they feel that their emotions are safe with you?

Do they feel energized, supported, calm, challenged, accepted, or inspired?

The answer may be different in every relationship. We show up differently depending on how safe we feel, what role we believe we need to play, and what patterns already exist between us. Still, there is value in choosing a few qualities that you want your presence to carry.

I want people to feel that they do not have to perform around me. I want them to feel heard. I want them to know that they can be honest, even when their truth is unfinished. I know I will not create that experience perfectly every time.

There will be moments when I am distracted, impatient, tired, or too focused on my own perspective. There will be conversations I could have handled with more care. There will be times when I realize that what I intended was not what the other person received.

Intention gives us somewhere to return. The card reminded me that the way we move through the world leaves traces.

Long after they forget what we said, they may remember that they felt less alone. They may remember that they were able to laugh. They may remember that, for a moment, they felt seen.

That is a kind of legacy too.

When people leave your presence, how do you hope they feel?

With heart,

Bahar

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Authenticity is one of the core values I want to lean into more. I have been thinking about why the butterfly feels connected to authenticity for me. At first, I thought it was because of transformation. That is usually what people think about when they see a butterfly. Change, growth, becoming something new.

Then I looked back and realized the butterfly has been around me for a long time. Butterfly is also a popular brand in table tennis. When I was a kid, I used to wear clothes with the butterfly symbol on them. It was part of my world before I even thought about symbols or meaning. It was just there. On my shirts, in my sport, in the life I was living.

Then over the years, every time I had an achievement, or sometimes for my birthday, people would gift me something with a butterfly on it. A necklace. A shirt. Small things like that. Now there is a butterfly in the Back to Being logo too, if you have not noticed.

So I started wondering what that means. I think part of it is childhood.

As children, we are usually the closest to our authentic selves. Before we learn judgment, we are just being. We do not think so much about how we are being perceived. We do not know how to please everyone. We do not wake up and ask, “How can I be more acceptable today?”

We just like what we like. We cry when we are sad. We get excited about small things. We say what we mean. There is something so honest about that.

Then we grow up. We learn what people expect from us. We learn what gets approval. We learn what makes us successful, respected, accepted, loved. Slowly, we start creating a character. We build an identity around what we have been through, what we were taught, what we achieved, what hurt us, what protected us.

And of course, that is part of growing up. Our identity evolves. We are not supposed to stay the same forever.

But I think sometimes we move so far away from ourselves that we do not even notice it. One day we ask ourselves, “Is this really me?”

For me, authenticity is not about being the same person forever. I think it is more about being honest with where you are now.

Who are you when no one is around?

What is important to you?

How are you actually feeling?

What are your own definitions of success, love, belonging, strength, happiness?

What do you want, before you edit it to make it sound reasonable?

What do you believe, before you try to make it acceptable?

I think a big part of authenticity is vulnerability.

Not the kind of vulnerability that looks pretty after everything is already figured out. The real kind. Showing up while you are still in process. Letting yourself be seen before you have the perfect words. Being honest when you are unsure. Not waiting until you are perfect to be real.

I think for a long time, I thought I had to be more ready before I could show up. But authenticity is not about showing up only when you are perfect. That does not mean sharing everything with everyone. I do not think authenticity means having no boundaries. Some parts of us are private but it does mean not abandoning yourself just to be accepted.

Because sometimes we live with definitions that were never ours. What if those words mean something different now?

What if success means feeling aligned?

What if confidence means showing up while still feeling nervous?

Maybe that is why the butterfly keeps coming back to me. It reminds me of childhood. It reminds me of table tennis. It reminds me of a version of me that was not trying so hard to explain herself. A version of me that was just living, moving, trying, playing, feeling.

Authenticity is not about becoming someone completely new. Maybe it is about coming back to the parts of us that were always there. The parts that got covered, quiet or learned to wait.

For me, leaning into authenticity means coming back to my own definitions. It means listening to myself before I look around for approval. It means allowing myself to be seen without needing to be perfect.

A question to sit with:

Where in your life are you ready to stop performing and come back to yourself?

With heart,

Bahar

Last weekend, I was up in Yukon, Canada, on wild land for the Aligned Retreat. A group of people came together to ask a simple but not so simple question: what matters most in this one wild and precious life?

I have been wanting to write about it since I came back, but honestly, it has been hard to find words. Some experiences need time to settle in the body first.

The week before I left was really busy. I packed almost last minute, and my flight was early in the morning. I woke up at 2 a.m. wishing I could sleep for just a few more hours. On my way there, I felt excited, but also a bit uncomfortable. Ten hours of travel, no idea who I was going to meet, no idea how the weekend would unfold.

Before the retreat, we had pre-work. We were asked to think about and write down our core values. I wrote: learning, creativity, connection, authenticity, adventure, inclusion, and relationships.

On my first flight, I looked at those words, and then I fell asleep.

I wasn’t sure if there would be internet where I was going, so during my layover I called my family. Then the second flight landed in Whitehorse. I was waiting to be picked up, looking around at the other people waiting, wondering if we were all going to the same place.

Then Andrea and Jamie, the landowners and hosts, arrived. I was wondering how we would find each other but we didn’t even need the sign. They welcomed us with such warmth, and we slowly started getting to know each other on the way. We made a few stops before arriving at the land, and I still do not know how to describe how beautiful it was.

And then we arrived.

We arrived, and we arrived, and we arrived.

Kelly was the only person I knew virtually before arriving. I knew her through her mentor coaching and the beautiful Life Design work she does, and that is how I first found out about the retreat. She was there alongside Becky, Robin, and Sherri, the faculty team, welcoming us with open arms. I turned my head and could not believe it was real. The land, the cabin over Crag Lake, the mountains, the clouds, the trees, the birds singing… This is where words start to feel useless. The land felt so welcoming, so accepting, that the heaviness of the week softened in me.

We got settled, and I met my lovely bunkhouse partners. Over the weekend, we explored our values and chose one core value we wanted to lean into over the next six months. We had beautiful local food. We were taken care of in such a nourishing way.

The team had planned different activities and art modalities for us. Through dance, yoga, photography, art, and life design, we reflected on what it means to actually live the value we had chosen. Every activity opened something.

From morning to night, we spent time together. We cried. We laughed. We spoke. We listened.

I keep thinking about the sound of rain on the yurt while we were meditating. The view while we were making art. The fire that held what we wanted to let go of. The moment we looked at photos and realized how much emotion they carried. The group dance that felt almost magical.

There were things many of us had never experienced before. The poetry dance, and the way we slowly built trust until we were dancing as a group, is something I will hold onto for a long time.

Part of healing happens when we are held in a safe space. I have experienced that as a coach, and I have experienced it as someone being coached. We need that space more than we admit. A safe space is where you can be honest about what is happening. Where you can say what feels right for you. Where you can be in process and still be accepted.

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And then there were the connections. When you focus on being, doing becomes less important. Some of us did not even find out what each other did for work, but we still felt close. It felt like I had known these people for a long time because we shared what mattered. We had deep conversations, little chats around the fire, vulnerable moments, quiet moments, and moments of real authenticity.

I feel like I lived all the core values that I wrote down in this trip but authenticity is a bold word in my life these days. In my next post, I want to write more about what it means to me and what is changing.

I was reminded that being open does not mean knowing exactly what will happen. It means allowing yourself to show up anyway. It means making space for the unknown, for connection, for surprise, for the parts of you that can only speak when life gets quiet enough.

For now, this is what I know.

Take the time.

Take the time to leave your routine. Take the time to listen to yourself. Take the time to sit with people who are also trying to live more honestly. Take the time to slow down enough to hear what has been waiting underneath the noise.

You will not regret it.

With heart,

Bahar

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In this episode, I reflect on failure, confidence, recovery, and self-worth through lessons from years of being an athlete.

A reminder that one bad day, one mistake, or one hard season does not define who you are.

If this episode resonates with you, I’d love to hear from you. You can email me or join the conversation on Substack!

Email: hello.backtobeing@gmail.com

Click here to join my Substack

Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

In my writing, coaching, and podcast, I keep coming back to self-awareness because it has shaped the way I understand my life. But what do I mean by that?

Self-awareness is the ability to notice yourself. It means paying attention to your thoughts, emotions, reactions, needs, habits, and choices. It is not about judging yourself or analyzing every detail of your life. It is about becoming more honest with yourself about what is happening inside you and how you are showing up in the world.

The American Psychological Association defines self-awareness as self-focused attention or knowledge. In simple words, it is the ability to look inward and recognize your own experience. It helps you understand what you feel, why you react in certain ways, and how your behavior affects your life and relationships.

Self-awareness sounds simple, but many people move through life on autopilot. We respond out of habit. We avoid uncomfortable feelings. We repeat the same patterns without stopping to ask whether they still fit who we are.

When I started to learn more about it, my decision felt more aligned. I didn’t blame myself for everything and I could also understand others so much better. Self-awareness begins with noticing.

Noticing what gives you energy and what drains you.
Noticing when you feel calm, tense, connected, or disconnected.
Noticing what you need before you become overwhelmed.
Noticing the difference between what you truly want and what you feel expected to choose.

This kind of awareness creates space. Instead of reacting immediately, you begin to pause. In that pause, you have more choice. You can ask yourself, “What am I feeling?” “What do I need?” “Is this response coming from honesty, fear, habit, or pressure?”

You begin to see which environments support you, which relationships feel healthy, and which choices are no longer right for the life you are building.

Research and leadership writing often describe self-awareness as both internal and external. Internal self-awareness is how clearly you understand your own values, emotions, strengths, and patterns. External self-awareness is how clearly you understand how others may experience you. Both matter. Knowing yourself is important, but so is being open to how your actions affect others.

Self-awareness is not the same as self-criticism.

Self-criticism says, “What is wrong with me?”
Self-awareness asks, “What is happening here?”

That difference matters. When awareness becomes harsh, it can turn into shame or overthinking. When awareness is paired with compassion, it becomes useful. This does not mean excusing everything we do. It means understanding ourselves clearly enough to take responsibility without turning against ourselves.

Self-awareness helps us notice our patterns with more honesty. For example, you may notice that you agree to things too quickly, that you avoid difficult conversations, that you need more rest than you allow yourself, or that you feel most like yourself in certain spaces and not in others.

In daily life, self-awareness can look very ordinary.

It can be taking a breath before answering.
It can be recognizing that you are tired.
It can be admitting that something does not feel right.
It can be noticing that you are trying to please someone.

Self-awareness is a practice, not a final destination. You do not reach a point where you understand yourself completely. As your life changes, your needs change too. Your values may become clearer. Your boundaries may become more honest. Your choices may begin to reflect who you are now, not only who you learned to be.

A simple question to return to is:

What am I noticing about myself right now?

With heart,

Bahar

Lately, I’ve been thinking about how much of life we measure by what can be seen. We count the obvious things: the degree, the job, the promotion, the money saved. These are the things people can ask about. These are the things that fit neatly into a conversation when someone says, “So, what’s new?”

But so much of life does not fit into that question. There is no simple way to explain the year you spent trying to feel like yourself again. There is no certificate for learning how to say no without feeling guilty. No one claps for the day you finally leave something that has been hurting you. No one necessarily notices when you stop abandoning yourself in small ways. And yet, those are the things that change a person.

I think this is one of the reasons so many of us feel behind. We measure ourselves through visible markers while living through mostly invisible seasons. Someone else gets promoted, and we compare it to our uncertainty. That comparison is unfair from the beginning. We are comparing what can be seen in their life to what cannot yet be seen in ours.

The visible parts of a life often arrive last. Confidence may come after years of doubt. A healthy relationship may come after years of heartbreak. We see the flower and forget the roots.

I think about who I was a few years ago, when I wanted so badly to have proof that I was moving forward. I wanted something visible to point to. Something that would make all the uncertainty feel justified. I wanted to know that I was not wasting time, that I was becoming someone.

What I did not understand then was that growth was already happening. It just did not look like progress yet. It looked like surviving. It looked like being confused and still continuing. Maybe some seasons are not meant to look impressive. Maybe some seasons are meant to rebuild the person who will one day carry what is coming next.

And maybe not everything meaningful can be measured while it is happening.

Some growth is quiet because it is happening underneath the surface. Like roots growing in the dark. You cannot see them. You cannot show them to anyone. You cannot use them as proof. But without them, nothing would be able to bloom.

So maybe before deciding we are behind, we need to ask what we are not counting. The grief we carried. The courage it took to begin again. The patterns we are trying not to repeat. The softness we are learning after years of being hard on ourselves.

Those things count too. Maybe they count more than we think.

If you've been carrying the weight of invisible growth, or questioning whether you're further behind than you should be, I explore it more deeply in Episode 2 of Back to Being. You can listen wherever you get your podcasts!

Here is my questions for you: What are you carrying that no milestone could ever fully capture?

With heart,

Bahar

When I first started saying no, I thought the hardest part would be the guilt. I was wrong. The hardest part was watching what happened next.

I had been easy to love in all the expected ways. If someone needed something, I tried to find a way. I was always available or I would make myself available. Somewhere along the line, I had confused being loved with being needed, and being needed with always saying yes.

So when I began saying no, even gently, it felt terrifying. For a yes person, that question can sit at the center of everything.

Will you still love me if I can’t come? If I don’t answer right away? If I need rest? If I choose myself this time? If I have a boundary? If I say no?

What surprised me was how revealing the answer became. Some relationships adjusted and stretched. They made room for a version of me that had needs, limits, and preferences. Those relationships felt deeper and safer. The love remained because the love had never been built on compliance in the first place.

Other relationship didn’t feel the same. Uncomfortable with the version of me that no longer existed solely in service of their expectations. That was painful to see because sometimes when we stop overextending ourselves, we discover that certain connections were benefiting from our lack of boundaries.

The relationship felt stable when we were always giving and accommodating. The relationship felt close when we were always available. But was it love? Or was it access? That is a difficult question.

I think real love has room for no. Real friendship has room for no. Real partnership has room for no. No is not rejection.

No says, I am a person, not an endless resource.

No says, I trust this relationship enough to tell the truth.

A relationship that can only survive your yeses is asking for your compliance, not your authenticity. The older I get, the more I believe that love is tested not by how much we can give, but by how much truth a relationship can hold.

Can it hold my limits?

Can it hold my changing needs?

Can it hold disappointment without punishment?

Can it hold a version of me that is not always available, agreeable, and accommodating?

Because if I must constantly abandon myself to keep your love, then what exactly is being loved?

Not me. Only the version of me that never says no and that version was exhausted. These days, when guilt appears after I set a boundary, I try to ask a different question.

Do I trust this relationship enough to tell the truth?

The healthiest relationships in my life have answered that question over and over again.

They have taught me that love does not disappear when I have a boundary.

Love does not disappear when I choose myself.

In fact, the deepest love may be the kind that says:

“You don’t have to earn your place here by saying yes.”

Maybe the reflection is: Where in my life have I been calling it love, when it was really just my fear of saying no?

With heart,

Bahar

Today, as you’re reading this, I’m hosting my first in-person group coaching session for immigrants. Last year, this was a dream. Today, I am doing it.

Am I nervous? Yes. I don’t know exactly how it is going to go. I don’t know what will come up in the room, what people will share, or how the conversation will unfold. But I trust my intention. I trust the power of people gathering honestly and I trust human beings.

And I also know that stepping out of our comfort zone is hard, even when we are stepping toward something meaningful. There is something about doing it for the first time, mixed emotions at the same time.

We’ll be exploring identity through the lens of art. Sometimes colors, shapes, and images can express things that are difficult to put into words. Sometimes we understand ourselves differently when we stop trying to explain and simply create. We let the hands move before our thoughts.

Nobody told me that immigration would make me question so many things I thought I already knew about myself. Not because I changed overnight. But because so many of the things I used to rely on suddenly disappeared.

There were things I had to leave behind. There were things that were added to my life and there were parts of myself I never expected to change. Some changes happened quickly. Others took years.

I think that is why reflection matters so much during times of transition.

Life moves quickly. There is always another form to fill out, another problem to solve, another thing to learn. We become busy adapting. Busy surviving.

But if we never pause to reflect, we can miss the quiet ways we are changing. We can miss the strengths we are developing. We can miss the grief we haven’t fully acknowledged. We can miss the parts of ourselves that are asking for attention.

And sometimes we can forget that identity is not something we leave behind and replace. It is something that continues to evolve.

Today, a group of immigrants will sit together and explore these questions through art.

We’re not trying to find the right answers. Not to define ourselves once and for all. We’re here to notice, remember and reconnect with ourselves in the middle of change. Maybe that’s something all of us need from time to time, whether we’ve crossed an ocean or not.

A question I’m sitting with:

How have life’s transitions changed the way you see yourself?

With heart,

Bahar

In this episode of Back to Being, we explore the pressure to have it all figured out, the feeling of being behind, and the invisible timelines we carry.

This episode is an invitation to pause, breathe, and ask: What timeline have I been measuring myself against? And what part of my story have I forgotten to count?

A gentle reminder: this podcast is for reflection and educational purposes only, and is not a substitute for therapy, diagnosis, treatment, or support from a qualified mental health professional.

I'd love to know your thoughts and what this episode brings up for you!

Email: hello.backtobeing@gmail.com

Substack account: https://substack.com/@backtobeingwithbahar

Get in touch! I can't wait to hear from you!

April 19, 2018. The thirteen hour flight was coming to an end.

I usually sleep on airplanes, but this time my sleep came in pieces. Every time I opened my eyes, I looked out the window. From above, the city looked beautiful. I had heard that Toronto was known for its nights, and now I could see it.

Then the airplane landed. The first wind that touched my face felt like a slap.

It was freezing. Where I came from, it never snowed. Summers reached forty degrees, and warmth was something I never had to think about.

I remember standing in line, texting my parents and everyone else.

I’ve arrived.

After that, everything moved quickly. Officers asked questions I had prepared for. I answered carefully, holding onto each word. Then they handed me a piece of paper. In a strange way, it became my first identity in this new country.

I had planned to live in the college residence . Partly because it was close to campus, and partly because I wanted the full experience of being a student somewhere new.

Before arriving, I had filled out a questionnaire about my personality, interests, and lifestyle. The school was trying to match roommates who might get along.

I met my first roommate and liked her immediately. But in those first few days, something strange happened. I forgot the little English I knew. People call it culture shock. Whatever it was, words didn’t come easily. My tongue felt slower than my thoughts.

One day, she asked me a yes-or-no question. I moved my head up and down to say no. She looked confused. That was one of my first lessons.

Here, “no” wasn’t up and down. It was side to side.

There were other surprises too. Pickles were sweet. Yogurt was sweet. No offence to sweet-pickle lovers, I just had no idea pickles could taste like that.

Eventually, we started understanding each other better. I baked something for her. She introduced me to Dal, an Indian dish I ended up loving. I was grateful for that first connection. Then she told me it was her last semester and she would be moving out in a month.

I remember feeling disappointed. I had only just begun to feel comfortable. That became a theme of those early months. Just when I thought I had figured something out, I had to start again.

Before the semester started, I had to take an English assessment.

There were eight levels. I was placed in level four. I remember feeling crushed. All I could think about was the extra time, the extra money, and how far behind I felt. Then orientation arrived.

We sat in a room full of people from different countries, backgrounds, and ages. Someone asked me a question I had never considered before.

“What is your English name?”

I looked around.

Many people seemed prepared for this question.

I wasn’t. Some students encouraged me to choose an easier name. “Maybe Rose,” someone suggested but I resisted. I couldn't!

My name wasn’t easy to pronounce, but it was mine. I asked if I could keep it.

“Of course,” they said. So I did. Some people learned to pronounce Bahareh or Bahar. Some never did. And honestly, that was okay. I’m glad I kept it. A name becomes part of your identity. You hear it in childhood. You hear it when people celebrate you, comfort you, call you home for dinner, and tell stories about you.

I have complete respect for people who choose a new name. I just didn’t want to feel forced to leave mine behind. A few weeks later, I met Professor Anne. To this day, she remains one of the best people I have ever known.

She was warm, open, encouraging, and made every student feel like they belonged in the room. After a while, she told me she thought I can be in a higher level. I explained that I hadn’t done well on the assessment and I learned that I needed a score above ninety to skip a level.

Eventually, I did. The following semester, I moved to level six. At the time, I thought being placed in level four was a failure. Years later, I see it differently. Sometimes what feels like falling behind is actually life placing the right people in your path. Professor Anne helped me in ways I couldn’t have imagined. She introduced me to opportunities. She helped me get my first job. She became one of my first professional references.

One of our assignments was to pair up with a classmate, choose a place in the city, explore it together, and present what we learned. I remember spending an entire day wandering through a museum, trying to understand both the city and the people around me.

At the time, everything felt difficult. Today, it feels precious. Eight years have passed since that flight landed. When I think about those first months, I don’t remember the paperwork, the forms, or the confusion nearly as much as I remember the people.

Starting over is rarely as dramatic as we imagine.

Most of the time, it looks like learning one small thing at a time. And then one day, without realizing it, the place that once felt unfamiliar begins to feel like part of your story.

What is one part of yourself you are glad you didn’t leave behind?

With heart,

Bahar

Through different seasons of my life, I have had the chance to meet many kinds of people.

As a national athlete, I traveled a lot. I met people from different cities, countries, cultures, and backgrounds. Later, immigration opened that world even more. Coaching did too. Sitting with people and hearing them talk about the real things in their lives has taught me how complex we all are.

One of the most important things I have learned is this: when you are with people, try to put the judgmental mindset aside.

I say “try” because I know judgment is part of being human. Our minds are always analyzing, comparing, making meaning, and trying to understand what is happening. Someone speaks, and before we even notice it, we may start forming opinions. We think about what they said, how they said it, what we would have done differently, what we agree with, what we don’t understand.

Sometimes we are not really listening anymore. We are listening to our own thoughts about them.

We label people. We place them into categories. I have done this too. I think most of us have, even when we don’t mean to. But over time, I started asking myself a question that changed something in me: who am I to judge?

Really, who am I?

When I judge someone, I am often judging them based on my own standards, but who decided that my way of seeing the world is the only way?

What feels normal in one family may feel strange in another. What is acceptable in one culture may be misunderstood in another.

I know what it feels like to be judged from the outside. I have felt shame for where I am from, even though I never chose where I was born. For a long time, I was not always comfortable sharing that part of myself. When people hear “Middle East,” some of them already have assumptions before they know anything about you.

When I first moved, my English was not very well. There were moments when people gave me attitude because I could not express myself the way I wanted to. Sometimes people heard my name and immediately knew I was not from here. Thankfully, I am not saying this was the majority of my experience. Most people were kind, and I am grateful for that. But there were few moments that were not like that.

They taught me how quickly a person can feel small because of something they cannot control. An accent. A name. A birthplace. A background. A body. A job. A gender. A skin color.

And because I have felt that, I try to be more careful with others. If you’ve ever experienced that kind of judgment, I hear you!

You do not have to make yourself easier to understand in order to be respected. You do not have to shrink the parts of you that others may not know how to hold. You do not have to become more familiar, more acceptable, or more explainable to deserve kindness.

I may not know your whole story. I may not understand every part of your life, but I can still meet you with care. I can still choose curiosity before assumption. I can still remind myself that your humanity does not depend on how much of you I understand.

That is what humanity means to me.

It means respecting people before they have to explain themselves.

We can hurt people with the words we use.I don’t say this to make us afraid of speaking. I say it because I think we can become more thoughtful. We can ask better questions. We can listen with more humility.

Maybe the practice is not to never judge. I think that would be impossible. Maybe the practice is to notice when judgment arrives and ask ourselves: what am I assuming? What don’t I know? What standard am I using here? And who am I to decide that this person needs to live by it?

I think so much changes when we approach people this way.

I hope this space reminds you that you are allowed to arrive as you are.

A question I’m sitting with:

Where in your life could you replace judgment with curiosity?

With heart,
Bahar

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There is something strange about starting over. People often imagine it as a fresh beginning or an exciting new chapter. And sometimes it is. But what we talk about less is how disorienting it can feel.

When I first arrived in Canada, it felt like I had to learn everything again. How to get groceries. How the banking system worked. What a credit card was and how to use one. How to get a Social Insurance Number. Even my phone didn’t work at first.

I remember standing at bus stops, staring at route maps, trying to understand where I was supposed to go, how to get there, and whether I was even on the right bus. There were so many things I didn’t know that everyone else seemed to know.

Sometimes I was afraid to ask questions. What if people laughed? What if they thought I was incompetent? What if I asked something that seemed obvious to everyone else?

In many ways, it felt like being a child again, learning how the world works from the beginning. The difference was that this time, I was expected to already know. There was a constant sense of trying not to make mistakes, trying not to stand out, watching, observing, and adjusting.

Starting over is about temporarily losing the comfort of competence. Back home, I knew how things worked. I knew how to navigate daily life. I knew where I belonged. Suddenly, many of those certainties disappeared.

And I don’t think this experience is unique to immigration. Many people find themselves starting over at some point in their lives: a new country, a new career, a divorce, a loss, a health diagnosis, retirement, the end of a long relationship, or the beginning of a new one. Whenever life changes dramatically, we often find ourselves in unfamiliar territory, trying to understand rules we haven’t learned yet.

What makes starting over difficult is not simply the practical learning curve. It is the emotional experience of becoming a beginner again. Most of us enjoy feeling capable. We like knowing what we’re doing. Starting over strips away some of that certainty.

It places us in situations where we don’t know the answers, where we feel awkward, uncertain, and vulnerable. Yet there is also something profoundly human about this process.

Every meaningful period of growth requires us to become beginners again. To tolerate not knowing. To accept that competence comes after confusion, not before it.

Looking back, I realize that starting over taught me more than I understood at the time. It taught me humility. It taught me patience. It taught me empathy for anyone navigating an unfamiliar world. And perhaps most importantly, it taught me that feeling lost is not always a sign that something is wrong.

Sometimes it is simply a sign that you are learning how to find your way in a new landscape.

If you are in a season of starting over, perhaps the goal isn’t to immediately feel confident. Perhaps the goal is simply to keep learning, one question, one bus route, one unfamiliar step at a time.

With heart,

Bahar

Welcome back! In this episode, we explore the question: Who are you when the titles fall away?

So much of life teaches us to define ourselves through roles, achievements, responsibilities, and the way others see us. We become the job title, the family role, the successful one, the responsible one, the helpful one until we forget there is a self underneath all of it.

This episode is a gentle reflection on identity beyond labels and expectations. What remains when we stop performing, proving, or explaining? Who are we when we are not measured by productivity, status, or usefulness?

Friendly reminder: This podcast is for reflection and is not a replacement for therapy, mental health treatment, or professional support.

Get in touch and let me know what resonates with you!

Email: hello.backtobeing@gmail.com

Substack: https://substack.com/@backtobeingwithbahar

I’d love to hear what resonates with you!

It was 2 a.m., and I was hugging everyone at the airport. My immediate family, friends, and cousins surrounded me with so much love, and I knew I could never replace these relationships. Around thirty-two people had come to say goodbye. Even now, I still think about it.

Before passing through the gate, I handed the extra things from my luggage to my dad to take back. Then I walked through, found a seat, and sat down. Fear and excitement showed up at the same time.

I flew to Istanbul, where I had a few hours of layover. The airport was crowded, with very little space to sit, so I ended up on the floor. Across from me, a woman was sitting nearby.

I smiled and looked away, busy reading and replying to the flood of messages that started coming in as soon as my phone connected to the internet. A moment later, I looked up. She was smiling at me. This time, I didn’t look away. I smiled back.

“Are you traveling alone?” she asked.

“Yes,” I answered briefly.

Then she asked about my next destination.

“Toronto,” I said.

At the time, it was a city of unknowns to me, a place I hoped would hold new experiences. She told me she was going to the U.S. They had immigrated a few years earlier. One of her children still lived back home, and she traveled whenever she could to visit.

Meanwhile, I was caught in my own thoughts, quietly holding mixed emotions: excitement, homesickness, and fear.

As if something had just occurred to her, her expression softened.

“Do you have anyone there?” she asked.

I gently shook my head.

There was something in the way she looked at me. A kind of care that felt familiar. Almost like, for a moment, she saw me as her own.

During those few hours, she tried to tell me about life there, to make it feel a little more familiar, a little less distant. Then she took a couple small sandwiches out of her bag and offered it to me.

“Here, dear. I made it. Let’s share it.”

I thanked her and said I had money with me, that I could buy something if I needed to. But she insisted.

“It’s just a few bites. We’ll share it.”

The airport was full, so we sat on the floor and shared the sandwich. A few hours passed. She made sure I was at the right gate for my flight, and then she left.

I always thought courage was something I had to carry alone. But sometimes, in the most uncertain moments of our lives, we are held by people who may even only stay for a few hours. A stranger can become part of the story.

To the woman whose name I never even learned, I still remember your face, your smile, and your kindness.

Who made you feel a little less alone in a moment when you needed it most?

With heart,

Bahar

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The Suitcase

My mom was crossing items off her list while I packed my suitcase. I placed a few pieces of my life inside: the frame my friend had given me for my eighteenth birthday, the book signed by my favorite author, my first doll, and the art piece I had poured so much love into. Then I stepped back and looked at the overflowing suitcase. The zipper barely closed. That was when I realized I couldn’t take everything with me.

You can’t pack your parents. You can’t pack your siblings or your friends. You can’t pack your mom’s cooking, your hometown, or the version of yourself that only existed there. I didn’t have a name for that feeling yet. I didn’t know if it was sacrifice, loss, or a kind of grief I didn’t have words for.

In the last few months before leaving, everything started to feel different. I ordered food from my favorite restaurant, walked into the stores I had always gone to, met my friends, and suddenly every moment felt like a countdown. I looked at everything a little longer, not knowing when, or if, I would experience it again. I remember holding my grandmother’s hands a little tighter than usual, trying to memorize their warmth. Somewhere deep inside, I knew there might not be another goodbye, and there wasn’t.

I packed three suitcases, but what I carried was heavier than all of them: the weight of every goodbye, a small piece of my heart tucked into each one. There was also this unspoken rule in our home that we all had to look strong. No one said it out loud, but we were all trying not to fall apart. I could see the worry in my parents’ eyes, even when they tried to hide it behind encouragement and smiles. I was moving to a country I had never seen, only imagined. Yes, I knew some English, but looking back now, I could barely form a real sentence.

Sometimes I think about my parents and wonder how they managed it. How it must have felt to watch their child step into the unknown, trusting that she would somehow find her way. Some people kept asking, “Why are you leaving?”Sometimes there was a sense of guilt in it. Not always intentional, but present in the way people asked. When you leave a place that may not always feel stable, but is filled with love and history, you are not leaving just to explore the world. You are leaving for possibility, for a future that might be better.

And in that moment, you don’t always have the space to feel everything. The weight of the future becomes so heavy that your emotions are pushed aside, hidden somewhere behind the clouds. In the culture I grew up in, success mattered deeply. It was not about sitting with failure. It was about learning how to win next time. Keep going. Be strong. Make it worth it.

But life does not always follow that pattern. At some point, it slows you down. It asks you to feel what you did not have time to feel back then. And what you couldn’t carry in your suitcase finds its way back to you anyway.

Maybe we don’t return to ourselves by going back. Maybe we return by making room for the parts of us that were left behind, the feelings we had to postpone, and the goodbyes we never fully got to grieve.

A question I’m sitting with:

What is something you had to leave behind, but still carry in you?

With heart,

Bahar

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Before I tell you what I do, I want to tell you what has always been true about me: I am curious, I love people, and I am endlessly interested in the stories that shape us.

I am a lifelong learner, a coach, and a storyteller, but those titles only hold part of who I am. I love conversations, personal growth, stories, books, culture, art, and community, which is why I wanted this space to feel alive enough to hold many parts of me, and hopefully, many parts of you too.

For years, I have sat with people in moments of change. I have listened to their doubts, hopes, questions. I have seen how much courage it takes to be honest about where you are, especially when life does not look the way you imagined it would. Somewhere along the way, I realized I was not only witnessing those questions in others. I was living them too.

There have been seasons in my life when home, identity, and belonging stopped feeling simple, when I felt between versions of myself. Over time, I have learned that the relationship we have with ourselves is the one we carry into everything. It shapes how we move through change, how we love, and how we find our way back when life asks us to begin again.

That is why I created Back to Being.

I think I finally found my favourite place. A place where I can write honestly, without rushing to turn every experience into a lesson. A place where I can share from the middle of life, not only once everything is clear.

Here, I want to write about identity, change, uncertainty, self-trust, relationships and healing.

Back to Being will hold personal stories, podcast episodes, questions and reflections.

More than anything, this space is an invitation to live authenticly and come closer to the life that feels true to you. To remember that being you is enough, even here, even now, even before everything makes sense.

I hope this becomes a place you can return to.

A place where not knowing is normal.
A place where we don’t have to be perfect.
A place where becoming can take its time.

I’m so glad you’re here.

With heart,
Bahar

The first episode will be out soon.

Let’s be with heart, honesty, and each other.
Bahar

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