Here’s the story.
I come from an unusual background. My grandfather, a successful banker, was friends with George Bush Sr.; he helped convince him to run for his first political office and was one of his campaign managers. My family descends from Maxime Guillot, one of the early pioneers of Dallas. He opened the first factory and held the first Catholic mass in Dallas in his living room.
Money, power, influence, image – growing up, this was the kind of life I thought I was supposed to lead, who I was supposed to be. I ran with the popular crowd, was a cheerleader, joined a sorority. But inside I was fed up, and knew there had to be something more meaningful out there for me.
Here’s what I did about it.
Heartbroken from things ending with my first love, I finally got the guts to get out Texas. I moved to Spain to teach English but later came across a job traveling the world, doing business with presidents, prime ministers, diplomats and the wealthy elite — all of a sudden living an even more extreme version of what I was trying to escape back home.
Still, while I went from country to country, I witnessed everyday people in their struggle and humanity -- boys with shriveled legs and young blind fathers living in utter poverty in Nigeria, the young woman with a badly deformed face and her protective father walking with her in Madrid, and the elderly beggar woman on the street in Latvia who burst into tears when I gave her four dollars. All this was what kept me connected to the voice inside that was still longing for something deeper. Nevertheless, by the end of my travels, I felt as empty and confused as I had before.
Here’s the twist.
Years later I returned to Austin and continued to try to make life work and find happiness, but eventually realized that it would never fit for me there. I moved to New York City in the summer of 2001, and immediately came down with a debilitating illness that doctors initially believed was Multiple Sclerosis. Within months it was clear that no one could diagnose it, which meant that I couldn’t be given any treatment.
And here’s what ended up happening.
Unable to work and barely able to function, I was forced to search for an alternative way to get better. A friend and psychologist peer of my mom's told her about healing through Sufi practices that might help me: ancient teachings of Sufism -- the knowledge of God through the heart -- brought to America years before by a grandfatherly sheikh and teacher of the Al Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem. As much as I resisted changing my old way of life, I had no other options, and couldn't deny that I was drawn to this new approach; little by little my health began to improve.
But I could never be a Muslim! I could not come to terms with giving up my strong Catholic identity -- even though no one was trying to force me. Through the practices, I was starting to feel real peace and happiness for the first time since my early childhood; the strangling anxiety and feeling of pressure to succeed and maintain a perfect appearance was beginning to fall away. So I kept going.
Here’s why I’m writing this book.
As a lifelong writer, I have chronicled my experiences and shared this memoir with published and respected authors, all of whom believe I have an important story to tell. My hope is that this book -- especially during these tumultuous times -- can spread the basic, profound and universal truths of love, kindness and compassion that I have been so fortunate to embrace; that it can show the beauty of true Islam, and that it can help us all accept and love each other.
I come from an unusual background. My grandfather, a successful banker, was friends with George Bush Sr.; he helped convince him to run for his first political office and was one of his campaign managers. My family descends from Maxime Guillot, one of the early pioneers of Dallas. He opened the first factory and held the first Catholic mass in Dallas in his living room.
Money, power, influence, image – growing up, this was the kind of life I thought I was supposed to lead, who I was supposed to be. I ran with the popular crowd, was a cheerleader, joined a sorority. But inside I was fed up, and knew there had to be something more meaningful out there for me.
Here’s what I did about it.
Heartbroken from things ending with my first love, I finally got the guts to get out Texas. I moved to Spain to teach English but later came across a job traveling the world, doing business with presidents, prime ministers, diplomats and the wealthy elite — all of a sudden living an even more extreme version of what I was trying to escape back home.
Still, while I went from country to country, I witnessed everyday people in their struggle and humanity -- boys with shriveled legs and young blind fathers living in utter poverty in Nigeria, the young woman with a badly deformed face and her protective father walking with her in Madrid, and the elderly beggar woman on the street in Latvia who burst into tears when I gave her four dollars. All this was what kept me connected to the voice inside that was still longing for something deeper. Nevertheless, by the end of my travels, I felt as empty and confused as I had before.
Here’s the twist.
Years later I returned to Austin and continued to try to make life work and find happiness, but eventually realized that it would never fit for me there. I moved to New York City in the summer of 2001, and immediately came down with a debilitating illness that doctors initially believed was Multiple Sclerosis. Within months it was clear that no one could diagnose it, which meant that I couldn’t be given any treatment.
And here’s what ended up happening.
Unable to work and barely able to function, I was forced to search for an alternative way to get better. A friend and psychologist peer of my mom's told her about healing through Sufi practices that might help me: ancient teachings of Sufism -- the knowledge of God through the heart -- brought to America years before by a grandfatherly sheikh and teacher of the Al Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem. As much as I resisted changing my old way of life, I had no other options, and couldn't deny that I was drawn to this new approach; little by little my health began to improve.
But I could never be a Muslim! I could not come to terms with giving up my strong Catholic identity -- even though no one was trying to force me. Through the practices, I was starting to feel real peace and happiness for the first time since my early childhood; the strangling anxiety and feeling of pressure to succeed and maintain a perfect appearance was beginning to fall away. So I kept going.
Here’s why I’m writing this book.
As a lifelong writer, I have chronicled my experiences and shared this memoir with published and respected authors, all of whom believe I have an important story to tell. My hope is that this book -- especially during these tumultuous times -- can spread the basic, profound and universal truths of love, kindness and compassion that I have been so fortunate to embrace; that it can show the beauty of true Islam, and that it can help us all accept and love each other.