"Do not be satisfied with stories, how things have gone for others. Unfold your own myth." - Rumi
Deeyah Khan
I was on my way to meet one of the most courageous human beings on this planet, Deeyah Khan—a filmmaker, activist, and human rights advocate. Along with the Ontario lieutenant governor, Supreme Court judges, and many authoritative figures, I eagerly awaited her company. Deeyah's work has involved lengthy and intimate engagement with some of the world’s most dangerous groups—Islamic extremists, former jihadists, neo-Nazis, white supremacists, the Ku Klux Klan, and domestic terrorists—putting her own life at risk. No wonder her groundbreaking films have earned her multiple awards, including Emmys and BAFTAs, for documentaries like White Right: Meeting the Enemy, Jihad: A Story of the Others, and Islam’s Non-Believers.
So, you would think that when I got the unexpected and rare opportunity to ask her any question—perhaps about global leadership, courage, or making a positive impact on the world—I would seize it. But you would be very wrong. Because the question that burned most in my mind was this: Did she have a mortgage? And how was she handling her personal finances?
Her answer caught me off guard.
Now, before you think I’ve lost my mind, let me tell you the full story.
What Women Yearn For
Like many women, I often find myself feeling both overwhelmed and underwhelmed at the same time. Overwhelmed, because I have a senior management job, a six-figure salary, and—most significantly—I am a homeowner in Toronto, Canada. The weight of it all is constant. In Toronto, real estate is king. Homeownership is an obsession, an unspoken benchmark of success. There’s a joke that everyone in the city has a side hustle as a real estate agent because real estate is what “smart” and “upstanding” people invest in. Most people juggle one or two jobs just to afford mortgages on homes that easily surpass a million dollars.
For many of us—especially children of immigrants—owning a home is not just a personal goal but a generational victory. Our parents left everything behind, sometimes even things they were never allowed to have, to give us a better life. To question whether it’s worth it—to spend thirty years working to pay off a mortgage—feels ungrateful, even reckless. And yet, deep inside, I wondered: Is this really the only way?
Despite the exhaustion and the pressure, I still felt a persistent undercurrent of dissatisfaction. I longed for things that no mortgage, home ownership, job title, or financial stability could give me:
I wanted to stop at any moment in my day and take as many deep breaths as I needed, for as long as I needed.
I wanted to tell my truth bravely and not care who believed me—but also, to be believed.
I wanted rest, peace, and passion.
I wanted to be seen and loved.
I wanted justice for all.
I wanted a world with benevolent leaders.
I wanted children to be at the center of the universe.
I wanted women to attend their own medical appointments, or their children’s, without needing their boss’s permission.
I wanted lifelong friendships, connection, and community.
I wanted to find my purpose—and trust that I was meant to live it out fully.
I wanted to feel alive.
When I first discovered Deeyah Khan’s work, I was captivated. When asked why she willingly engaged with dangerous extremist groups, her response was both simple and profound: She wanted to understand human differences. She believed that if she could truly grasp what separates us, then overcoming those divisions in everyday life would become much easier.
Born in Norway to an Afghan mother and a Pakistani father, Khan grew up navigating the complexities of dual cultural identities. Encouraged by her father to pursue music, she gained national recognition by the age of 12. But her rising public profile led to severe backlash, threats, and even physical assaults from within her own community. The hostility forced her to flee Norway at 17, seeking refuge in London—only to face the same fate there. Caught between Western culture and the expectations of her ethnic community, she found her music career under attack once again. Eventually, she left London and moved to America, where she decided to dedicate her life to bridging the gaps between people. She understood that when communities fail to accept and nurture their own, young people become vulnerable to extremist groups that offer them a twisted sense of belonging and purpose.
At some point in her journey, she made a conscious choice: She would no longer be afraid.
That’s it, I thought. That’s the answer.
So, when I asked her about her mortgage, what I was really asking was: How did you manage to reject this culture of ownership—one that’s not just reinforced by billboards and advertisements, but deeply embedded in our workplaces, policies, and societal expectations?
Her response was unexpected.
She gracefully thanked me for my question. Then, she told me that she doesn’t owe anything. She has no assets. Her two children live in an apartment with her mother, and she moves through the world living out of a suitcase.
And yet, while most of us were struggling just to pay our bills and mortgages, she was out there—spending her time making films in some of the most extreme and dangerous conditions on the planet.
She wasn’t chasing material ownership. She didn’t own anything. The audacity to have a soul that is not fulfilled by material success!
Oh. That was it.
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