Part II: That Was Us Then, Leila — A Goodbye Love Letter for My Former Boss and Greatest Mentor

Reflections and Lessons for Social Entrepreneurs and the People Who Love Them

Note: In January 2020, Leila [pronounced lye•lah, not lay •lah] Janah, a social entrepreneur and Founder of Samasource, Samahope, Samaschool and LXMI, died after a battle with epithelioid sarcoma, a rare soft-tissue cancer. She was 37 years old. The author, Kamrin Klauschie, was Leila’s Junior Chief of Staff from 2014 to 2016. This writing, and the opinions within, are the author’s. The statements herein do not reflect those held by any of Leila’s operating businesses and the author is not currently affiliated with any of Leila’s businesses or foundation.

Language Warning: Leila would want Kam to notify her readers that this blog post contains adult language and cursing.

This is Part II of a IV Series. Part I can be found here.

Dear Leila,

I met you for the first time in person when I was 23 years old, backstage at SOCAP 2014. I was an unpaid volunteer fangirling my social entrepreneur heroes and desperately looking for a new job, and you were a headlining speaker wowing thousands with your tenacity, accomplishments, and goals as a 32 year old social entrepreneur running 4 — count them — 4 organizations simultaneously. Samasource. Samahope. Samaschool. Sama X.

A lot of Samas then — the most Samas ever, Leila.

Always, a Sama in Sanskrit tattooed on your wrist.

I was the same age you were when you first started dreaming up Samasource.

I was fresh off a plane from Bali where I had been living as a “digital nomad” as they are called now, but were not called then (read: an underemployed, poor, resourceful, ambitious entry level Millennial who cannot afford to live in the United States on her startup salary, but who wants to experience the world and enjoy nice things somehow), doing marketing and event planning, and I was deeply heartbroken and shaken, devastated by an international breakup with a French man I will always love.

I was “homeless” the way a Milennial, college educated, middle class, American white girl can be: not at all homeless, but living without a home. I slept for a few months in a run down, rat infested, molding hostel near 6th Street in SoMa because the startup I worked for previously housed it’s employees together in San Francisco, instead of properly compensating them. I had very little then — materially, professionally, and emotionally. I don’t think anyone, even most of my family, ever knew I lived in a hostel on 6th Street when I was working with you, Leila.

I remember distinctly thinking I would clean your toilets for you at the time. I was completely infatuated, in awe of your fierce intelligence, your unwillingness to compromise on your morals and values, your fearlessness and clear articulation in front of huge audiences, your stunning beauty and cool, exciting sense of fashion, your tough-as-nails work ethic. You were everything I dreamed of becoming and more.

You had just bought a sweet little old cottage in the Mission in San Francisco (you had your own gorgeous home in San Francisco! No man involved! Carrie Bradshaw would be so proud, I thought), and you were painting the entire inside white — literally the entire thing — from floor to ceiling. I had never seen someone paint their wood floors, much less white.

This was the first amongst many things I would discover that were so unique to you, Leila, but you always made it work. You were so stunningly, unashamedly you. It was totally overwhelming most days. I noticed quickly you were often flawless, instantaneous, completely original. Some of your crazy ideas made no fucking sense whatsoever. You were hilarious, if not, totally entertaining to witness in that creative, high state.

You drove an old dirty ass convertible Miata that, while tiny, still barely fit in the minuscule parking garage underneath your house. This car was very Warren Buffet of you, but with some added California chic. I had multiple strokes getting that car in and out of your house. You had a garage, a truly rare asset in San Francisco, and still managed to get several parking tickets that I often had to pay for you in a fit of terror, totally late regardless, whenever you suddenly remembered that you had received them.

In just a short year, I’d be SmartScanning every document you’d ever possessed into Evernote because you sure loved Phil Libin, and because fucking everything had to be done to an extreme and to it’s utter completeness with you. You had the same reaction when Google Photos came out, and I found myself sitting in the office until the late hours of the night crashing the WiFi while uploading 7,000 random, pointless photos of the Kenyan bush that you had taken sometime back in 2009.

You would remind me frequently… really too often, Leila, how I was putting off this crucial task of uploading every document and photo you ever possessed to your Evernote and Google Photos, and you’d bring it up again and again and again in almost every check-in we had for probably over a year. Utterly meaningless shit, Leila, and I told you so. Fucking meaningless. You would probably argue with me about it to this day if you were still here. Relentless, Leila, you were truly relentless about everything. Everything.

I remember clearly how sometimes it was so hard to just speak so basically with you, to just get words out of my mouth before you hung up or walked out, because of how overwhelming and incredible you were.

You would often just barrel over me, pummeling me with your tasks, ideas, preferences, needs, visions. You, and often only you, knew exactly what you wanted. But it was my job to translate anything and everything you imagined into reality and make it come true, alongside the incredible dream team you had assembled.

I did the very best I could, Leila. I want you to know that — loud and clear, once and for all. I worked so hard for you. We all did. Even when we didn’t necessarily want to be around you, or didn’t really feel so much strong love for you, we believed in you, Leila.

We

always

believed

in

you.

There was and is no better group of people to do this work of helping you — past, present, and future. I always made a point to try to study, meet and hopefully befriend everyone on the team, even if only online. This was true and universal with you and with Sama: always such good people.

No matter if we misunderstood you, and made mistakes, or you burned us out and churned through us over time, which you always did, Leila, didn’t you, then? You know, especially now, how amazing each and every one of us was and is. It makes me happy to imagine that you can see each of us differently now, more compassionately, from heaven.

I hope you’re up there watching lots of little short films, assembled by the Gods, showing exactly how much each of us did that you never saw, how much each of us was going through that you never knew, in order to try to make your wild dreams a reality.

I request you please watch the one from 2015 where I assembled Ashley, Lindsey, Goldie, and I in the M-Team room, to cry and listen to “Fuck It” meditations over and over again on repeat. Not our brightest or most productive moment, but man, we were in it together then, Leila. I hope watching me sobbing on the floor in the dark, windowless conference room with “Fuck It” meditations playing on loop makes you laugh. It sure made me laugh. A lot of reverse or type 2 fun, working with you was.

I know there’s some part of you that finally enjoys being able to settle in, let it be, and exist in peace, just watching now, even if you couldn’t really do so in your time here with us. We never needed another passive spectator down here anyway. We didn’t ever expect you to do such things, like relax, while you were here with us, but please, dear God, do it now.

Since I know you can’t fucking relax even if you fucking tried, Leila, please watch over us with that fierce, detailed protectiveness that is so natural to you. You’ll see so much beauty in action and integrity in us that you didn’t have time to see before. You’ll see so, so much GTD, Leila. You’ll see so much of the mission and values you instilled in us everywhere.

If I’m honest, I loved you and Sama more than my then boyfriend in the early days. I broke up with him before the Sama Gala. You consumed so much of my time and energy; I didn’t really care then. I was letting you take all of me at work. This was the opportunity of a lifetime and I admired you so much.

Like me, at the time, you were in love with a powerful, influential, wealthy French man who would never love you the way you deserved to be loved. It was and is no jab at him or his character, Leila; I just observed it and believed it to be the truth of the circumstances.

I eventually mustered the guts to tell you once, that I thought you deserved to be loved so much better, mostly spiritually and definitely emotionally. I don’t know why I ever thought I could change your mind in any way. We both struggled deeply with French men, I guess. I understood you.

You could hold a vision and seek for latent potential that might never be realized with the best of them. I did it too, for years, then and since. You and I both needed to learn and re-learn that lesson over and over again, how pointless such an exercise really is — seeking what might grow and what could become in the men we love, rather than what currently is. It is a truly essential entrepreneurial skill, and a dead-end, fatal endeavor with men, and in many relationships in general, Leila.

I remember a few months later when you cornered me in a closet in the office and asked me about my Valentine’s Day date that I had posted about on Instagram, and sheepishly admitting to you that I was dating an employee from Sama. You had, in fact, cornered me in the hall closet after all, Leila.

I remember how ecstatic you were and how mortified I was when you excitedly, happily reported me to HR — in the best of ways. You wanted to support and encourage our relationship by making it known and respected — and you did so instantly, on your own volition, without my consent in the matter, with your typical overwhelming ferociousness — much like you did everything.

In my Dad’s family, we have a concept we call “momma bear,” affectionately and teasingly referring to how out of control my grandmother would become in any and all circumstances regarding the defense, or perceived defense, of any and all of her 6 children, as well as all of us — her grand-prodigy. You were much like my grandmother, Leila, except with basically everything.

I began to understand you and I had something of a pact: we always tried to have each other’s backs in matters of romantic love. We implicitly understood each other’s desires and dreams in the realm of romantic love would be challenging, perhaps more challenging than our dreams of justice, because of who we were and what the world is presently. We wanted each other to be happy. We knew each of us deserved great love.

In other words, Leila — I’ll admit I sensed a lot of untapped, unspoken hopeless romantic in you then. I dreamed of talking with you about your romances and heartbreak as I’ve gotten older and experienced more of life, but I lost my chance, Leila, and I’m so sorry to have lost my chance.

Years later, I was so relieved to learn you eventually found a man who could love you each day the way you deserved — a man I watched you sweetly do yoga alongside on Instagram. This is one thing that I reflect on most about your life that gives me great peace and relief.

I wanted deep, sweet, caring love to come to you. I prayed for that, often. I believe it eventually did, even if I wasn’t there to witness it, even if cancer cut it short. I am so happy to know you were deeply loved by a wonderful man while you were alive and well.

I am also elated to know he brought along the joy, delight, and love of a sweet little girl. Being a stepmother is a challenging role in this world, as Lynell, my stepmom, and I know full well, and you always loved challenges, Leila. If I’m honest, I often prayed I would witness you have children to observe how children might break and soften you, even if I also worried greatly for those imaginary children all the same.

I worried so often because you made me schedule the most insane international bender trips I have ever, and will likely ever see in my entire life, Leila. That’s probably part of the reason why you’re dead, you stupid idiot. I was in the prime of my early twenties and had traveled to nearly 30 countries by that time myself, and even I thought your travel habits were complete lunacy. Why did we have to do that, Leila?

You had a dedicated travel agent at a time when I thought travel agents didn’t exist anymore, like dial up Internet or landline phones. I quickly understood why. It didn’t take long before David Waldes and I were answering each other’s phone calls screaming, truly belting into the phone at each other “Everything Is Awesome!” to the tune of the Lego Movie theme song, instead of even bothering to say hello to each other. You were in constant motion. You would encircle the globe multiple times over, multiple times per year. Nothing could ever get you to stop. Nothing, until cancer.

You would call me from rural Uganda or some important, expensive tech conference in Europe to chew me out about putting your flight confirmation number inside the text body of your GCal invitation instead of the title. You’d tell me the things you preferred like “don’t leave a few hours of empty slot in my calendar” because, to be short and blunt about it — you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself.

Really, Leila? I can only say this because I’m 30 and not 23 now, because you’re dead, and because I don’t work for you anymore… but, you know… sit down and work on the long list of high priority and urgent tasks you have in front of you just like every other working human being on the planet. Please, Leila, truly, I beg of you, we all beg of you— just do all the things everyone has asked of you, because others rely on you for things, Leila. This did not ever come natural to you in your time here with us, Leila — the idea that other people relied on you for things. I just wish you could’ve seen this clearer, the way many of us saw it so blatantly.

It was often very unclear in our working relationship who was micro-managing whom, and more importantly — why, Leila. Whether or not you needed me to magically perceive I was running the entire show that day, or you needed to berate me because you clearly, obviously needed to run the entire show that day — I was there for you. I was so often just there for you. I often loved being there for you, Leila. I knew you needed me.

But, I also paid a very high price, Leila: any operational flaw in your day could and would be blamed on me, regardless of if I had anything to do with what had happened to you, regardless of if it was in my control to address or solve anything that had happened to you, regardless of if I was awake, or within an 8,000 mile radius of you. I was most often not awake, nor in an 8,000 mile radius of you. I took it, as much as I could. I knew you were under a lot of pressure and stressed.

You made me fear phone calls and text messages from colleagues and managers, at any and all times, Leila. I lived in a constant state of anxiety and paranoia when I worked with you. I was the perfect Andy Sachs to your terrifying Miranda Priestly — our characters plotting exactly along the lines of Devil Wears Prada. You even went so far as to call me the Robin to your Batman at All Hands once, in front of the entire company, including all our teams internationally — a badge I still hold with deranged honor until I die. I tried so hard to be flawless then, like you often portrayed yourself to be. I was one of few you entrusted and allowed to see your real truth.

I want you to see my truth, too, Leila.

To this day, I still get a deep, sickening feeling in my gut if I ever receive a phone call or text on my cell from any manager for any reason, regardless of the circumstance. In my first 1:1 meeting with my new manager at Dev Bootcamp after I left Sama, I just broke down and cried for 30 minutes straight because I was so terrified of having to deal with another boss. Boundaries were not ever your strong suit, Leila.

I didn’t know how to build or maintain a healthy relationship with a manager at that age; I often think I still don’t. You and I didn’t have a psychologically safe or professional relationship at times. I was often completely terrified of you, and what you might say or do next. I wish I could’ve stood up for myself and communicated this to you more fully, but I was young, naive, and inexperienced. You were also you, Leila.

Sometimes I just wished you could experience yourself or someone exactly like you, Leila, but few, if anyone, dared to be on your level or challenge you. There was often a vast distance between your intent and your impact with everyone on your team, whether or not you were willing to examine and interrogate it. I was often the one, among a few others, always left to clean up the mess, clarify the confusion, and temper the anxiety you left behind, Leila.

Nevertheless, I remember you calling me really distraught once, lonely and afraid during your travels in East Africa, and I mustered the best motivational speech I could about how much people loved you, even while I knew you drove them absolutely fucking batshit crazy, especially when you went unnecessary, far-flung, non-strategic trips like the one you were currently on. I could tell in that moment you were making yourself crazy, too. I knew you felt remorse. I knew you were self-aware, sometimes. I knew you wanted to do better. I wanted, so, so badly, Leila, to help you do better, too. I hope I did.

I’ve learned since, Leila: this is why cultivating strong practices around psychological safety, trust, and feedback are crucial and sacred with your team. Trust can never be assumed or default, like many leaders so strangely think it can — that’s literally not how evolutionary biology works.

I’m sorry to say, Leila, but everyone always knew all of your weaknesses. All of you also knew, and continue to know, mine. Everyone else always knows our weaknesses, Leila. Whether or not people feel respected and appreciated tends to determine whether or not you’ll be lucky enough to learn about them and have an opportunity to improve.

Learning this so painfully with you, day in and day out, was probably one of the most vital and valuable lessons of my time working with you, Leila. I will be a much more compassionate, respectful and clear manager and leader because of the messes I cleaned up for you, Leila. I find myself grateful for it, even if I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone.

Even if I always knew it was shitty to be us, the team, I also always had the distinct, clear, tangible knowingness that it was much, much, much more challenging to be you. Not only because of the way you chose to live your life in your role as our leader, but also because of the way your mind was built and what you had been through. I cherished these tiny moments where you would finally surrender and let me witness your humanity. I often craved the reminder that, you too, struggled and made mistakes like I did.

It always struck me how you were constantly, reflexively, intensely programmed to make the world a better place, sometimes no matter the cost to anyone or anything. But I just wanted you to love and enjoy the simple things, the pleasures of life, like some of the rest of us. This piece appeared to be missing from your DNA. The particular bit of stardust this universe made you from did not ever settle, at least while I witnessed it.

I knew you might be capable of it in some far off multiverse, but for those of us who worked with you, we got such tiny glimpses into the playful, light, fun person you also were when you were making jokes with Richard Branson on Necker Island or frolicking in bikinis on the playa at Burning Man. I just wanted to encourage and nurture that side of you more at work with your team, if I could.

I wanted to witness you fully, Leila, so I could try to become like you in all the best of ways.

It wasn’t long working together before you shared your dreams of becoming a mother with me, and in the brilliant genius twilight zone that is ones’ early twenties, I thought I could help you settle down, relax, and enjoy life more if I got you a dog. It was the closest you and I could get to building our own family at the time.

You thus became the first person outside my biological family with whom I shared a pet. It goes without saying that no one should ever, ever, ever share a pet with their boss. What the fuck were we thinking? This was one of a handful of interventions I would often attempt or explore, even if just in the recesses of my mind, to try to get you to just calm the fuck down and enjoy your life.

At the time, you were a whole 3 years older than I am right now, and you still agreed to this arrangement to share a dog together enthusiastically, often defending it to our CFO, which is why I know you are, and will always be, fundamentally my soul sister, my work wife, and my most favorite accomplice.

We were unstoppable dreamers, you and I. We would have it all. No fucking exceptions, Leila.

I began visiting the dog shelter in my “spare time” and sending you photos of dogs. You approved of precisely none of the dogs I searched for and found for you; you chose a dog that you found for yourself, and — of course you did.

Oh, and she was exactly you, Leila — in dog form. A stray, just like you, a beautiful German shepherd mix. She was your canine twin, truly a vision of you in canine form.

You named her Angela Murkel, because — of course you did. She had long sleek legs, lots of energy, and was stunningly gorgeous — just like you, Leila.

The two of you walking down the streets of the Mission to or from work were quite a sight to see. You would strap Angela Murkel, the dog, with a large dog backpack and make her carry some of your stuff.

Give work, you always said.

And you did always say that, Leila.

And boy, did you give it.

You gave Angela Murkel, and all of us, a lot of work, Leila.

I have never internally cracked up so hard as watching the two of you, six long, sleek legs and all — strut out of the office, completely serious, on some sort of mission, as you always were, sharing the load of natural African fair trade raw skincare ingredients, yoga clothes, leftover organic salad, dance shoes, and reusable water bottles between the two of you.

I stared at you with all seriousness and as much professionalism as I could muster as you walked by, internally searing this memory inside my brain, before immediately slapping my hand against my forehead and breaking out in loud laughter as you got into the elevator.

One time you called me and told me you decided you wanted to get rid of the Miata and get an electric car, specifically a Fiat, and specifically there were absolutely no models for sale in the entire state of California, but that’s the car you wanted, so, we’ll just have to figure that out. You knew there were none left anywhere in the whole state, you checked.

There were no more left in the whole state, Leila. Really?

Okay. I had to figure it out, Leila. Not we. I had a new electric Fiat for you at the DMV in SF with a red bow in a few days when you got home from your business trip. I have never felt so much like a motherfucking superhero as that moment when I arranged that new car for you.

Not even when I scored back to back meetings for many days in a row in New York with all the biggest, best funds and high net worth individuals that city has to offer. Not when I helped you on any of the stealth San Francisco meetings with billionaires I won’t name here. That car was peak for me; I went so far and above the work I was expected to do for Sama, just to make you happy, Leila.

Within a week, you told me you hated the car and wanted to get rid of it. This was my life with you.

I remember eventually purposely doing things to tease you and make you annoyed, as I started to slowly lose my mind with you. I put a colorful, cheap Hawaiian lei in the car hanging from the rearview mirror, making the car look like it was driven by a tacky, tasteless teenager. I knew it would annoy the shit out of you, Leila. It did. I was delighted.

I decorated my desk for Christmas with a bunch of messy tinsel strewn about chaotically across my keyboard, monitor, and countertop because I knew you loved things orderly and believed I represented you and your brand, but I never sat at my desk anyway, and everyone knew it, because I was always too busy chasing you — so I thought it was hilarious. It was so symbolic and metaphorical to me, Leila.

Here does not sit

the girl

who chases

Leila Chirayath Janah

for a living.

I just wanted to bring some lightness to our work, Leila, to remind you of the bigger picture. I hope I didn’t annoy or disappoint you too much in these moments.

Over time, you taught me how to show up in the world as such a badass, innovative entrepreneur, who also happened to be a woman. When you were gone on trips, I observed your wardrobe, toys, and home in complete awe, Leila. You had professional boxing, scuba diving and kitesurfing gear, you had an extreme arctic jacket able to withstand -70 degrees Celsius weather, you had colorful rain boot galoshes just like a child, you were learning how to fly a plane, and you had already moved on from your motorcycle driving phase. You ran a full marathon when you were 16 without training, moved to a village in Ghana in West Africa by yourself in high school, emancipated yourself before you turned 18 years old — because you were angry and stewing about your parents’ divorce. As a kid who lived through 2 divorces, and fantasized deeply about escaping into the culture and wisdom of the world, your life experiences and choices as a teen stood out to me the most.

Fucking unapologetically badass, that’s what you were.

You had seen and done it all,

and if you hadn’t done it yet,

you were in the process of learning how to do it, Leila.

I studied the art you collected from Kenya and the rural South of the United States, the unique, bohemian beaded and metal jewelry you owned, the books on your shelves, the products you used, the food you ate, and the brands you wore. I observed and studied everything, Leila. Everything.

And you know, Leila, I only learned about luxury brands like Hunter and Canada Goose because of you — that ruined my life, Leila, so thanks for that. Fuck. I suspect expensive consumer goods of all varieties ruined your life in the same way, as you discovered the lifestyles and amenities afforded to your peers over time.

I bet you secretly, or perhaps not so secretly, loved founding LXMI because you could indulge in luxurious items and experiences in the name of social impact, and honestly, good for you for finally seeking pleasure and indulgence alongside your strong ethical standards. Life demands that kind of balance, and I hope for luxury, delights and pleasures for all of us, in a way that takes care towards others and environmental sustainability seriously.

During this time, you welcomed me into a world of success, wealth, and power that I never knew until you. I emailed back and forth with people like Marissa Meyer, Sheryl Sandberg, Brit Morin, Meriam Naficy, Melody McCloskey pretending to be you. I loved this. This was such a thrill.

I loved being your secret weapon, Leila.

I had never expected my extensive online stalking skills to turn into “recon,” as we called it, or reconnaissance, where I could strategize how to get resources based on how many unique and creative connections I could make between people, organizations, and their goals. I was, and still am, so good at this, and I enjoy it so much. I went to SxSW and Summit all expenses paid for the first time because of you. I flew in a private jet for the first time with you.

I remember that moment so clearly, Leila — glancing up at you from the back of the plane, you looking so regal and confident in the passenger seat of the cockpit, me watching you practice all the verbal communication and non-sensical (to me!) button-pressing of a pilot-in-training about to launch a plane into thin air — headset on, locked and loaded, clearly thrilled by the task ahead — and you whipping your head back to me and flashing a giant, gorgeous grin, throwing me a thumbs up as we took off.

You were pure magic to me in these rare moments, Leila.

It was around then I began to understand the truly vast distance between the people you rubbed shoulders with at institutions like World Economic Forum and Techonomy, and the poor people you dedicated your life to working for in this field. I saw how one group of wealthy, powerful people pretended to care and feigned accountability, but ultimately enjoyed far too much privilege and benefit to make any true structural change.

I saw just how much condescension and pity society and the resourced classes aim at poor people. I saw how you shifted back and forth between these dichotomous worlds with relative ease, always with concerted effort to extend dignity and economic opportunity towards those who often only receive disastrous, unnecessary charity.

I saw how you actively listened to people living in poverty, while others pontificated about poverty. I saw how you took action and actively experimented with various new solutions all the time, while others were still pontificating about poverty. I saw how wealthy, powerful people often judged you so harshly for this — you doing things for the poor that these people so greatly admired and celebrated in men and in business.

You were one of the first people to demand, so shockingly, that people who live in poverty or with structural injustice actually attend these conferences and speak directly about their experiences and solutions in the flesh.

It’s hard to imagine now, with necessary works like the book Winners Take All putting the truth out into the open, why this was so shocking 8 or so years ago. You knew inherently the people you served deserved much better and so much more than charity and pity; we all simply deserve opportunity in a more structurally equal and just world. Equitable opportunity was the missing key.

I want you to know, Leila, more than anything, you taught me dignity and long term economic livelihood was always and will always be the better goal. You taught me to take stock and recognize the incredible impact of good work on mine and others’ identities — how we can build our sense of self-worth and meaning in life. This was and is so crucial to who I have become now, Leila. You taught me to so deeply appreciate, and never forget, my place in the birth lottery. You taught me to always endeavor to learn from experts, and to methodically improve myself with knowledge and practice.

I’ll never ever forget how you always let me buy any book or any affordable resource I could get my hands on that might improve our work or my knowledge, and you always encouraged me to just do it now — don’t wait. I never had to make a business case or ROI analysis for my own self-improvement with you. Self-improvement was the holiest, the highest action, that didn’t ever require justification with you. I loved this so much, Leila. It is too rare in managers and leaders, and I miss it a whole lot.

The longer we worked together, I began to understand the attention to detail unique and specific to a beautiful, intelligent, powerful woman in the world.

You could discern the difference between my confidence, my doubt, my shame and my laziness with ease, especially as it related to how I showed up day to day at work. You called bullshit on it and invited me to bring more. I was holding myself back too much, making myself uglier and seemingly more stupid and naive, on purpose. Diminishing myself had always been more natural and more safe to me. It still is.

You seemed to have the opposite problem throughout your life, Leila.

You had to hold yourself back on behalf of and in service to others too, a phenomenon and routine I was equally and all too familiar with my entire life as a girl and a woman, but you had learned successfully how to push the envelope and earn the right to break the mold and show up fully. You knew you were that good, and you wouldn’t compromise every single time. You were that fearless, sometimes.

It was a time in history when a woman could be dynamic, creative, powerful, strategic, sexy, athletic, competitive, relentless, beautiful, intelligent, successful, innovative — just not all at the same time — but you had always been all of them all at once, which made your life unnecessarily and often unfairly difficult, Leila. You were masterful in this regard also.

You seemed to emerge more colorful, more beautiful, more thoughtful, more challenging — with each interview, talk and shoot, especially as you launched LXMI. I secretly, internally cheered every time you called out your male peers on their turf in Eden, or challenged powerful organizations directly in TV interviews at the Aspen Institute.

I always thought launching a D2C skincare company was a place you would really thrive and take advantage of your strengths in an arena where the world might be more comfortable with a beautiful, dynamic, feminine leader, but I also just remained so totally baffled over how you managed to keep a B2B non-profit alive throughout most of your 20s and all the way to profitability 10 years later.

Your adaptability and breadth of knowledge as an entrepreneur was pretty unprecedented, Leila, honestly.

I’ll never forget when I re-designed your personal website for you as we worked towards signing your book deal. I remember the unexpected shock I felt in my body when you chastised me for making you too central, too important, too visible, too beautiful (let’s be fair: the first draft designs were probably also slightly shit. You had a knack for calling out all of the slight or total shit in everything).

By then, you were seasoned to the ways of the world for a woman in corporate America and sensitive to the idea that people couldn’t handle you as the focal point, in all of your greatness and glory.

You had been labeled narcissistic amongst your elite peer group before I started working with you. So, Leila, since it’s 2020 now— let’s take this moment to be perfectly clear — all entrepreneurs are narcissists, otherwise, as all of us know in our heart of hearts, we’d curl up in a dark, empty, hopeless corner and perish. But I digress.

From my perspective, I looked at you on a regular basis and imagined how many versions of you in parallel multiverses turned out to be Harvard educated, super successful Victoria’s Secret super models or Priyanka Chopra’s billionaire Bollywood bestie instead, and I thought — truly — fuck everyone. Has anyone looked at you, Leila? Has anyone seen you?

Does anyone know how fucking narcissistic and wildly obsessed with myself I would be if I was Leila?

To hell with all of you, you fucking haters. You envious, cruel, hateful trolls. That’s my fucking boss and she’s a fucking stunning, gorgeous Desi queen — and you can see so with your two vile, envious eyeballs — I thought, you know, Leila, like… more or less. These are the things that exist within the little timid recesses of my mind. Welcome.

And while we’re here— for the record, why can’t she show up fully, in every single way she shines in this life? Why does she, of all people, have to dim herself and all but remove herself from her personal website in order to satisfy others?

I resented this.

It angered and disappointed me, Leila, so much.

I have practiced the exact same reel-it-back routine my entire life, but for all I saw and admired in you, Leila, all that I genuinely believed to be so much more ideal and more perfect than me — I finally felt the injustice of it in my gut and in my bones. The loss of latent human potential is present there, too, Leila. I really wish we didn’t have to do that. But, I understand.

I, timid and hidden as I always was, wanted you to throw how incredible you were in everyone’s face in the ways I always dreamed of doing with reckless abandon for myself but never did because I wasn’t ever you, while you, unstoppable and remarkable as you were, knew you had to pick and choose where and when you could show up — or else you’d be punished by others.

We balanced each other in those moments. You had to be somewhat in the background, somewhat secondary. You had learned this the hard way. You couldn’t be perceived as too selfish, narcissistic or sexy. You and I never discussed how precisely all of these labels people heaved at you are literally overtly sexist, Leila, but I’ll just do my best to let it go, Leila.

Let it go, can’t hold it back anymore… Let it go, let it go…

Because honestly, Leila, I’m 30 now. I’ve seen more of corporate America now.

I realize, only now, this topic actually deserves it’s own whole damn dedicated motherfucking letter.

You’re gonna love this one, Leila.

All my best,

ps. You know, Leila… I always used to sign off on emails I wrote pretending to be you with “all my best.” It was like a secret code between the two of us signaling “Kam crafted this email.” I sincerely hope there comes a day I can connect with more of your friends and family — getting tipsy together until the wee hours of the night on someone’s porch somewhere — obviously, as heartbroken people do— just to look back at emails, even the most sensitive and personal, and see the “all my best,” and laugh knowing I wrote it.