40. FOUR ZERO.

Forty trips around the sun. Forty New Year’s resolutions I didn’t keep. Forty chances to stumble, rise, stumble again, and rise a little taller each time.

When I was little, honestly, 40 looked like a full stop. A number so big it felt like life would surely end there. You know… people at 40 were supposed to retire, sit in their verandas, and complain about their backs. Old. Grumpy. Done.

Well, LOL. How wrong were we?

Because here I am at 40 and the story’s just getting good.

Something flipped this year. Like a switch inside me. Suddenly, I don’t care who’s watching, clapping, or whispering behind my back. I don’t care to “keep up” or “prove myself.” I’ve found my lane, and I’m swimming in it—loudly, joyfully, unapologetically. And oh boy, it’s liberating.

This last decade? Whew. It wasn’t pretty. Between raising kids (while constantly wondering if I’m screwing it up), building a business from scratch, heartbreaks, failures, pandemic, bankruptcy, broken bones, losing people I loved, mental, emotional, and physical breakdowns, raising my voice for those who couldn’t, lawsuits, injuries, bankruptcy, vandalism—you name it. Life threw the whole kitchen sink at me.

And yet… in the middle of the chaos, I grew up.

I stopped chasing validation.
I stopped measuring my worth in applause, Instagram likes, or polite nods of “you’re doing so well.”

My definition of success shifted from validation → to impact.

Success no longer looks like trophies, promotions, or milestones.

It looks like, the sound of my kids’ giggles echoing through the house. A student telling me they feel “seen” on the dance floor. A random message that says, “Hey, you made my day better.” The quiet joy of knowing that my work has created a safe space for someone.

At 40, success is not about proving myself. It’s about improving the spaces I step into.
It’s not about competing. It’s about creating. It’s leaving a legacy etched in hearts.

Did I hit every target I once dreamed of? Nope. I missed plenty.
But what I gained instead? Love. Warmth. Blessings. COUNTLESS.

So here’s to 40.
To being bold. To being messy. To laughing out loudest. To being unapologetically me. To being silly. To being wildly ambitious. But ambitious for joy, not just milestones.

To building a life that will outlive me. Not in monuments, but in memories.

Because achievements? Validation? They fade.
But impact? Happiness? Legacy?
That’s forever.

And for everyone who’s walked beside me, cheered for me, lifted me—I am, because YOU are.

With love,
Deepali

From Outrage to Action: How We Turned Grief into Change After Jhaanavi's Death

 “Cut her a check for $11,000. She was of limited value anyway.”

Those words, spoken by Officer Daniel Auderer after the tragic death of Jhaanavi Kandula, continue to echo in my mind like a broken alarm — sharp, callous, and impossible to ignore.

Eleven thousand dollars? Is that what a young Indian immigrant’s life is worth? That’s it? Are we really that disposable? That invisible? That unworthy in the eyes of those who are sworn to protect us?

My first reaction, like many others, was a tidal wave of rage, grief, and disbelief. I wanted him held accountable. Fully. Publicly. I wanted to shout until someone—anyone—listened. I wanted to break something, to make noise, to do something. I screamed into pillows. I cried for nights. Those words haunted me. Still do.

Then came the overwhelming urge for justice. I knew he couldn’t just walk away from this. So, I did what I know how to do best—I started writing. Letters to SPD. To the Office of Police Accountability. To the Mayor. To the City of Seattle. I didn’t know if anyone would listen, but I had to try.

I organized solidarity walks, hosted town halls, opened up difficult conversations. We made ourselves visible—because visibility is power. And we needed power to demand accountability.

But once the rage began to settle, another question surfaced. Why did he say that? What kind of person even thinks that, let alone says it out loud? Was he an outlier—or a reflection of a deeper problem? Could this be the mindset of others in uniform too? I didn’t want to believe that. I couldn’t believe that.

And that’s when I met Victoria Beach—a fierce community advocate who’s been working with SPD for years to bridge cultural gaps. The moment I met her, something clicked. I knew exactly what I needed to do.

We had to help bridge that cultural divide.
Because maybe it wasn’t just cruelty. Maybe it was ignorance. A complete lack of understanding of who we are.

They don’t know our stories. Our struggles. Our achievements. Our deep cultural roots. They don’t see how hard we’ve worked to build our lives here—how much we’ve given, how much we’ve lost just to belong.

Maybe they don’t see our humanity because they’ve never had the opportunity to witness it.

And while yes, it should be on them to educate themselves… it’s also on us to speak up. To show up. To stand tall in our identity and tell our stories out loud.

Because how can anyone empathize with what they’ve never seen or known?

I’ve always believed there are two kinds of people in this world: those who sit back and blame the system, and those who roll up their sleeves and step inside to change it.

In July 2024, we formed the Indian Community Advisory Council, a team of nine fearless individuals who chose to be part of the solution—not the problem. 

Together, we began the real work. Not glamorous. Not always easy. But necessary.
We’ve now led 9 training sessions with SPD, hosted 4 community engagement events, and have personally trained over 100 new police recruits, giving them a window into our world— our values, our lived realities.

And what stands out the most? At the end of each session, we walk away with something powerful: mutual respect. Connection. Smiles exchanged. Hands folded. Recruits greeting us with a heartfelt, “Namaste.”

It’s in those moments that I know we’re doing something that matters.
That change—real change—doesn’t always come from outrage. Sometimes, it comes from showing up, from choosing empathy, from telling our stories boldly and beautifully until they can't be ignored.

They didn’t know us. That was part of the problem.
But now—they're beginning to.

And that’s a start.

And just like that, you're SIX

 My Dear Dia,

It’s here. The day we celebrate you—our little firecracker, our in-house diva, the queen of chaos and sunshine. Happy 6th birthday, my darling girl. 💛

Now, let me tell you a little story. You’ve always been a great sister. But did you know you were already being the best little sister before you were even born?

Picture this: It’s June 17th, 2018. I’m in the middle of prepping for Ansh’s 4th birthday party. The balloons are blown, the cake is ready, the games are lined up... and suddenly, boom, labor pains. But you? You were like, “No worries, Mom. I’ll just hang tight in here while you finish up this party.” 😎 You didn't want Ansh to not have his moment.

I was 3 cm dilated, having contractions, playing musical chairs, and clenching my teeth while yelling, “Pass the parcel!” You were chillin’. Waiting. Respecting your brother’s big day like the absolute legend you are. 

And as soon as Ansh finished opening his gifts, we grabbed our hospital bag and rushed off to the hospital. And a few hours later, you waltz into this world! 

You’ve been lighting up our lives since Day 1. Literally. We named you Dia because the sky turned this fiery red-orange hue as you were born, like the universe dimmed the lights and spotlighted your entrance. And now? You reminding us of it everyday:

“I am the light of this house.”

We tell you to brush your teeth — “No, because I’m the light of this house.”

We ask you to go to bed — “I’ll go when I want. I am the light of this house.”

Ansh may be the big brother, but you? You are the boss. The self-appointed queen. I’m sorry! “The light of the house”

And yet… beneath that larger-than-life presence is the kindest heart. You care so deeply, give the warmest hugs and oh! That laughter of yours. So infectious! 

You love taking the bus with Ansh. One day, things got a little dramatic. Ansh came home all quiet and pouty. When I asked what happened, he mumbled, “Some girl said I have lice in my hair…”
Ugh. Rude.

But the best part? The next day, you marched back on that bus like a mini bodyguard. You found that girl, looked her straight in the eye, and said, “Be nice to my brother.”

Like a boss. No hesitation, no fluff. Just straight-up justice.

That’s who you are, Dia. Fierce. Protective. 

You love your brother fiercely. You cried at football camp because you couldn’t find Ansh. You refused to sleep in your room while he was away at camp. And when you don’t see him around, your whole face falls down. He is your safety blanket, like you are his

You also cried at school recently, and the nurse called me. “Dia isn’t sick,” she said, “but she’s very emotional.”
I got you on the phone: “Dia, what happened?”
You: “I miss you.”
So, I rush to school in panic-mode. Maybe someone was mean to you? Maybe something happened? Nope. Turns out your class was celebrating two birthdays, and yours wasn’t one of them.

All that drama? Because you wanted your party now. We had to have a serious talk about calendars, and it only took 1.5 hours to do that😅

You are also a big helper! You help me with dishes, laundry, everything—even if it takes twice as long and the house ends up more messy. 

During our showcase, you basically run the backstage like it’s your own personal kingdom. While everyone else is busy panicking over last-minute cues, there you are—strutting around like the tiny CEO. One minute you’re handing out flowers, the next you’re casually putting blush on someone’s forehead (not their cheeks—because who made those rules, right?).

You're playing games, cracking jokes, distracting stressed-out dancers, and somehow making everyone feel like they’ve got this. Honestly, I should be paying you for stage management. You’re not just a rockstar—you’re the whole manager, hype crew, glam squad, and comic relief rolled into one sparkly little human.

You're my goofball, my sunshine, my sass queen, and my soul’s biggest joy.

You make me laugh, you make me think, you make me question all my parenting strategies—sometimes all in one minute.

Oh! And hands down, one of my absolute favorite Dia moments ever—picture this: a room full of people at the studio, buzzing with energy. You're about to make your grand entrance. Naman, sweet Naman, is standing at the door, all smiles, ready to greet you with a big warm hug. He goes, “Hi Dia!” with open arms…

And what do you do?

You don’t even blink. You casually take off your jacket—like a queen disrobing after a long day of ruling kingdoms—and hand it over to him without saying a word. No hug, no eye contact, just a swift handoff like, “Telme how it was.” Total "Poo from Kabhi Khushi Kabhie Gham"

Still laughing. Still not over it.

You’ve officially entered that glorious age where… everything is my fault. I mean everything.

You didn’t like soccer. Hated it. Begged me with those dramatic eyes to take you out. So I did what any mom would—I told Dad to handle it. So, he got you out of soccer. And guess what? A few days later, out of nowhere, you go, “Mom, you didn’t even let me stay in soccer long enough!” Excuse me?? 

Then there was football camp. You insisted on not wearing a sweatshirt. “I’ll be fine, Mom!” Fast forward 30 minutes, you get there, see other kids in sweatshirts… and suddenly I’m the villain: “Moooommm! You didn’t give me a sweatshirt!”

I mean, I’m fully expecting you to trip over in your school and yell, “Thanks a lot, Mom!” 

But hey—if being blamed for everything means I’m always top of mind, I’ll take it. (Kind of.)

This year, you’ve taught me:

• That giggles are contagious
• That the best way to start your day is by calling your hotel neighbors (even if they’re next door)
• That “San Franskisko” is the best way to say it
• And that I should never, ever assume the nurse is calling about a real emergency

You live loud. You love hard. And you remind me every day to let go, laugh more, and dance like nobody’s watching (even though you prefer it when everyone’s watching).

Happy Birthday, Dia.
Thank you for turning our world upside down in the most beautiful, chaotic, hilarious way possible.
Keep shining. Keep ruling.

And yes, you are the light of this house—just maybe don’t use that as a legal argument in family court someday. 😂

Love you to the stars and back,
Mom