A few minutes later, we found a second black Lab. Both males, and clearly siblings; the second dog was even sicker than the first one. My daughter and I got very upset but no one wanted to help us. I realized that this was a moment for me to be an example to my daughter.

If I want her to be a compassionate person, how could I turn my back on these dogs? My daughter is the next generation. How different is that from turning my back on a homeless person or others who need help? I want her to learn that we can make a difference — don’t give up!

Just then, a young couple came along and the woman, who introduced herself as Jess, became as worried as we were for these two starving pups. She and her new husband were on their honeymoon from Boston and offered to find a nearby shelter where the dogs at least would get some food and a place to sleep. Emily and I helped get the pups in Jess and her husband’s car, and she and I exchanged telephone numbers.

A few days later, I called Jess to see how it had gone, and although she was back in Boston by then, she told me that she and her husband had fallen in love with the dogs and signed a “no-kill” form at the shelter on Maui. This meant that if the dogs were not adopted then she would somehow ship them all the way to Boston unaccompanied; it would cost about $2,000 if it could even be arranged. It was kind of depressing, because I knew that because of the expense, this was a long shot. My husband was worried that I’d want to adopt them.

As soon as I got home, I sent out an email blast to my friends, asking if anyone could help get these dogs from Maui to Boston. To my surprise, a complete stranger named Debbie, who had received a forwarded email, got in touch with me. An animal lover, Deb lives in a nearby California city and was visiting Honolulu at that moment. If I could somehow get the dogs from Maui to Honolulu in about a week, she agreed to bring them with her back to L.A.

I was ecstatic, but then wondered how in the world we would get the dogs to her. Who would buy their crates, fill out the paperwork for the dogs to travel, transport them to Honolulu? Meanwhile the shelter contacted Jess, pressuring her to get the dogs out of there soon.

Even though I felt really uncomfortable about it, I sent out an even wider email blast to friends asking for ideas and help. People seemed to come out of nowhere! A friend of Deb’s (who live in Maui) said he’d get the dogs out of the shelter and keep them at his house for a few days. A friend of mine put me in touch with a Los Angeles real estate agent named Juanita, who in turn told me about Pilots N Paws, a group of pilots who transport dogs in their own private planes and ask nothing in return. Within minutes of my contacting Pilots N Paws, I got two replies. I went with Howard, as he offered to pick them up and get them to the airport. I could not believe this was happening!

Howard arranged for the dogs to go on an empty charter flight returning to Honolulu. The dogs were met by another person unknown to us, who picked them up and kept them at his house for several days before they could fly to L.A. with Deb.

Jess and I could not believe the boys were safely out of the shelter and out of danger and being loved by these unknown angels. The dogs had their crates, new collars and even beautiful Hawaiian leis for the ride to L.A. Deb checked in at American Airlines with the boys. All went so well that when the airline staff heard this heartwarming rescue story, the manager gave a free ticket to one of the dogs. Again, angels! Jess and I were on pins and needles. Would all go well for takeoff?

My daughter and I went to the airport to pick up the dogs, where Juanita joined us, just to meet them! It was so exciting — as a team we had done it. We hadn’t given up and we now had the dogs with us. We all cried — it was unbelievable! It had taken us three weeks to get them this far. There had been moments when I almost gave up and then something wonderful would happen, I’d get a call with help and was renewed and hopeful again.

Now safely at my house, we had to figure out a way to get the two dogs to Boston. I sent another email asking for anyone flying to the East Coast who wouldn’t mind two Maui pups accompanying them. One woman forwarded my plea in an email blast to 600 actor friends, and about 30 people offered to help. In the end, Jess and I paid for the dogs to be flown to her, and that is where they arrived a few days later, safely and happily. She named them Kona and Kai.

My VIV Moment came somewhere in those weeks when I realized everything was going to fall into place. People really care, and will come together if you can reach them. Even though my husband was not enthusiastic about this whole project, I pushed through anyway.

It’s a small thing to save the life of an animal, but each of our little contributions can make a difference in the world. When I was on that beach, I had a little piece of hope that it was possible. It felt like a huge risk. I didn’t know if others would ignore me, but every time I reached out, people had so many good ideas! That made it easier. Now I feel like the world is bigger, filled with a lot of people who care about animals as much as I do.

Emily was sad that we couldn’t adopt the dogs ourselves, but she’s happy that they’re in a good home now. And we both know that you don’t have to give up on an idea just because it seems almost impossible.

I’d had a decent corporate job in Austin, but truth be told, I hated it, and I am not very good at hiding those things. At the same time, I’d been exchanging love letters and long phone calls with a man I was falling for who lived in another state. Both of us were creative, native Californians who were living land-locked, so we dreamt up this love story with the sea, enriched by a culture of board sports, bikes and street art with soulful elements of home, and people we missed. I called it Anchor Girl.

The relationship ended abruptly, and I was left with drawings of anchors, the sea, and graffiti-like needlepoint I had drawn in my sketch books. In my loneliness, I began to write and dream some more.

My VIV moment happened one evening in Austin. As I stood on my balcony talking on the phone to my friend to Benji Thrasher (founder of the clothing line called People Are), it became clear that I wanted to develop Anchor Girl as a brand of goods aimed at athletic, adventurous young women. I’d always been a cyclist and snowboarder. I wanted Anchor Girl to celebrate the sea, sports, being creative and, well, living life fully! I realized that the Anchor Girl story wasn’t about that man in another state, but my love of California and following my dreams.

I called several possible mentors, found a great entrepreneurs’ training program and within a month I packed my bags for one more move — back to California, specifically Los Angeles.

Today Anchor Girl includes messenger bags, tops and T-shirts with simple graphic images of sea life. The mission is to create great products, inspire others and protect our oceans. We have partnered with the Gulf Restoration Network to donate a portion of our proceeds to them. The image of the pelican on the Anchor Girl baseball T-shirt and messenger bags honors the 11 oil workers killed on the Deepwater Horizon oil rig and all the life that continues to suffer as a result of the Deepwater spill in the Gulf of Mexico.

Our website features contests in which entrants tell what inspires them about sports or the wilderness, and celebrates extraordinary, adventurous young women who are nominated by their friends and family. Anchor Girl is evolving! I’m very excited about the buzz it’s getting and look forward to guiding its growth.

Rules and regulations can be made, but when the parents and grown-ups leave, the bullying begins, particularly online. I have since used the attention I receive from the media (because of my acting) to speak out against bullying. My blog includes posts about my activism.

Because of this activism, I have been chosen to play a runaway trying to make it on the streets in the motion picture Abused in America, which aims to raise awareness about child trafficking. Ten percent of the film’s profit will be donated by production company Adhara Properties Inc. to the Optimist Youth Homes & Family Services in Pasadena, CA. The movie is slated for release by Toronto Pictures Inc. in New York City, Los Angeles and Bucharest in November 2011.

Producer Daria Tufi and director Bruno Pischiutta chose me out of thousands not only because of my acting ability, but also because I believe in speaking out against social issues — bullying and now, child trafficking. Since my VIV Moment that day, I realized I would like to increase awareness on bullying and child trafficking through my acting work and my blog.

I speak out when ever possible to the media and participate in events such as the NOH8 Rally in Boston. This blog post has been shared through Facebook and Twitter more than 600 times, each time carrying a powerful message: “Love, not hate.” I hold myself to high standards at school and if someone is having a bad day or looks like they are feeling down, I give them a hug, even if I do not know them that well. I can tell if someone is trying to disappear and hide, so I will pull that person aside and talk to see if I can help. I am sincere in trying to make a difference in people’s lives and it starts with each one of use trying to make a change and sometimes a random act of kindness can trigger change.

At this point, I had been unemployed already for more than a year and couldn’t find anything suitable to do as a job to support myself as a single parent with a son. I told him that my decision was made and I was going back whether he liked it or not. After all, it was my life and I was going to do this. He continued to be angry with me for quite a while, but I did not back down.

The moment when I stood up to my father and had made my choice, it became clear to me that I had become a very independent person and thinker — a much different person than I had been as a child and in my 20s, and even early 30s.

When I reflect back on my childhood, I realize that I had always been very much under the thumb of my parents. They didn’t believe a child should have any thoughts of her own and, as a precocious child, I tried asserting myself with my mother, who would get very frustrated with me and tell my father that she could not “handle” me. She wanted him to be more of a father to my three siblings and me, a task he was not often up to since he worked multiple shifts at his job. I often remember getting into trouble with him. Sometimes, when I spoke my mind, my father would object so vehemently, he’d make me sorry that I had ever opened my mouth.

I ended up marrying my high school sweetheart, but instead of my father, my husband was now the man dictating what happened to me at home. Though my husband didn’t hit me, he was definitely abusive in a more subtle sense. Later, I found out he was seeing other women — even some of my girlfriends. After a 10-year relationship, we divorced.

Less than a year after my son was born in 1984, when my marriage to his father (my second husband) broke up, I had finally reached a point in my life where I decided that I was going to have to think for myself from now on and not listen so much to other people unless I was sure that they were doing it to help me.  And I’ve never had any reason to regret this change of attitude.

I know that no one else is going to speak up for me if I don’t speak up for myself.  I’ve found out, over time, that as long as I keep a cool head and think clearly, I can argue with anyone and I can usually win. Mainly, I’ve learned not to be afraid to speak up and say what I think, no matter with whom I am speaking.

It turned out that I was right about my decision to attend college. After three years’ full-time day school, I graduated as a computer professional with honors in 1996 from Seneca College of Applied Arts and Technology in Toronto, where I even won a few academic awards. A little later, I got a good job as a computer professional at RBC Financial Group. Along with my existing teacher’s certificate, I was finally able to get my professional computer and teaching careers going, and now I’m at Albert Campbell College Institute in Toronto, teaching computer-related courses. I’m planning to stay at Campbell until I retire.

While at college, I took a creative short story writing class as an elective and developed a love for writing. Since 1994, I have been writing short stories, mostly about people and relationships, life and death. I consider myself extremely fortunate to have a teaching job that I love, as well as a writing career. I credit both to finally finding my voice, as a woman and as a writer.

Yet, the thought of speaking to a real live agent on the telephone made me shake in my slippers. After all, I’m a writer. Let me write you a letter, a note or an email. But apparently, the universe had decided my comfort zone was way too comfortable and decided to toss me out, ear first.

I had just picked up the telephone to place an order for takeout. Instead of a dial tone, I heard a voice. When he introduced himself, I immediately recognized his name as an agent I had learned about on Verla Kay’s website, a wonderful place where children’s writers hang out and learn from one another. I had submitted only a few pages of my manuscript to this agent a couple of weeks earlier, and after hearing his voice, I thought for sure he was going to be the one to escort me down the long road toward my dream of becoming a published children’s author. He was calling me, right? That had to be a good sign.

Since the call took me by surprise, I couldn’t help flying into a panic. I could barely concentrate and needed quiet. My two daughters and husband had no idea I was on “The Call.” As far as they knew, I was ordering a pizza.

I needed to take notes so I grabbed a paper plate from the pantry and a stubby pencil from the junk drawer. I then stretched the telephone cord as far down the basement steps as it would go.

Without delay, the agent began discussing my book. He gave me revision ideas and asked to see it again. He also wanted to see another story I had written. This was amazing to me. Could this be it? I was out of my mind with happiness.

After waiting a couple of weeks for a response, I was happily working on another story at a folding table that served as my makeshift desk when I opened the long-awaited email from the agent. Rejection reared its ugly head at me right through my computer screen. Not only that, but a rejection for the additional story I submitted to him as well.

I was deflated. It was as though someone had suddenly pricked my skin with a pin and let part of me escape into the air.

My heart was broken. I sat at my desk and cried. Tears darkened the tablecloth, forming perfect circles. Why was I fooling myself with trying to become a writer? How could I possibly compete with the books already sitting on the shelves? Who exactly did I think I was anyway? I didn’t even belong to a critique group — no wonder the rejections were building up.

So, I did what came naturally: I began to pray. I wanted to be in the place where I was meant to be in my life, and if that meant I had to stop writing, I was more than willing to do just that. I placed my ego on the floor and with an open heart, I listened.

Before my last thought had fully formed, the phone rang. It was another agent! She was interested in the same story as the first agent and also spoke about revisions. This was incredible.

I completed the second set of revisions but still was unable to hit the mark the agent was looking for. She was very encouraging in her rejection, and I appreciated it more than she would ever know. With her phone call came my answer: Don’t give up. This is where I was supposed to be. I was almost there.

Five months and a few more rejections later, I was able to sell that revised story plus another one in a two-book deal with a major New York publishing house. Shortly after, I was able to secure an agent. This past January, I finally got the chance to see my book, The Trouble With Half a Moon (Putnam Juvenile, 2011), sitting on bookstore and library shelves. In learning to never give up on your dream, you must be willing to ask and to listen with an open heart. You just never know what you might hear.

It puzzled me that not one of the 20 people in my tour group turned to watch me leave, as they prepared to board a flight to the next destination on our tour of China. When they get to the next town, will they notice I’m gone? There was no struggle. “You are under arrest,” one soldier said, seemingly as an afterthought.

I found myself under arrest in Shanghai, China, in December 1988, with a fever of 102, barely able to stand without everything going into a Disneyland Mad Tea Party kind of spin. The only thought that broke through my fever-induced indifference from some virulent flu was, Maybe they’ll let me sleep.

My mind went back to a conversation I had earlier in the week on the train to Shanghai. Having always been fascinated by cultural differences, it was my habit when traveling, whenever someone appeared even slightly interested in speaking, to encourage conversation by asking questions.

One young man on the train turned to me and said in clear, precise English, “Hello. It’s so nice to make your acquaintance.”

“It’s nice to meet you, too,” I beamed back at him. It was a pleasure to speak to someone other than my tour-mates.

My visit to China was inspired by the movie, The Last Emperor. I wanted to know more about Mao Zedong, the communist leader of the country from 1943 to 1976. Every person I had approached so far was quick to inform me that any discussion of Mao was forbidden, and that made it all the more enticing.

We freely shared details of our lives as travelers frequently do, until I asked if he remembered any stories from when Mao was in power. His demeanor changed. His eyes darted carefully around the train; no longer focused on me. He whispered out of the side of his mouth, “We don’t speak of those times. It is forbidden. But, if you invite me to visit you, we could speak privately, away from the ears of the other people.”

He motioned with his eyes towards the train’s conductor, and then again towards the ticket-taker. After several hours of conversation, it was clear he was interested in being sponsored to the United States, and had no intention harming me. I wrote the name and address of my hotel on the back of my business card, and we arranged to meet at 6 p.m.

He was right on time, and eager to talk. “When I was a child,” his story began, “I loved school, and I loved my teacher. She was so beautiful, and so kind. But, we were told that the teachers were bad, and when the officials came to school to ask us questions, I didn’t want to say anything against her, so I told them that she made pretty pictures for the classroom.

One official asked me, ‘So, your teacher is an artist?’ and I couldn’t think of anything else to say; I only knew that I loved her pictures. They took her away, and I have always blamed myself. My parents were both professors at the university, and they knew that they would also be sent away any day, so we all went and lived in the countryside with the peasants. It was a hard life, but it was better than the re-education camps.” He seemed so relieved to share this burden; there really wasn’t anyone else he could talk to about it.

Though my experience pales in comparison to what those who lived in China under Mao must have experienced, I soon had a glimpse into loss of personal freedom. Each morning following my arrest began at 6 a.m. with a cup of tea and a dry biscuit. The soldiers would then take me to the airport, and upon arrival, my luggage was placed next to a vacant chair, and one of my armed guards would mumble, “Wait.”

Like clockwork, each evening at 5 p.m., they would greet me with the now meaningless, “No room on plane,” accompanied by the usual bow, and they would transport me back to the hotel. The day ended when the hotel doctor bowed and presented me with a disgusting-looking liquid he proudly proclaimed was something that sounded like, “ground bones and crushed herbs.” The concoction did little to ease the fever or the hunger, and my only food was the English tea cookies I’d brought with me in my suitcase from home. I hoped the medicinal drink would have some nutritional value.

On the sixth morning of my arrest, I sensed something had changed. The soldiers were chatty and seemed lighthearted and friendly. When we arrived at the airport, they threw my luggage out of the car and told me to board the plane heading to Xi’an to join my group. As they drove away, I was left with two suitcases, two heavy jade sculptures, two silk carpets and my purse.  No explanation was given for my arrest or my release.  I just wanted to get out of this airport.

The visit to Xi’an was a blur of six-foot sculptured terracotta warriors and almost complete silence from the group. One of my co-travelers whispered into my ear, “Some guy in uniform came and talked to the guide. Then, the guide told us not to talk to you. It was creepy.”

The next day, boarding the plane to Hong Kong passed without incident. When finally at the hotel front desk, I exerted the last of my strength and said, “Please help me. This is an emergency. I need a doctor right now. I am seriously ill.”

I was immediately ushered into a penthouse suite, and the hotel doctor arrived in minutes. “It’s all right, dear. You’re going to be just fine. Take this pill to sleep, and I’m giving you an injection of antibiotics. Do you understand?”

I nodded yes. He leaned in and whispered in my ear (it seemed that everyone whispered in China) “We know what happened, did anyone hurt you?”

“No, but I haven’t eaten for days.” I was too exhausted to elaborate on my menu of tea, dry biscuits and cookies, or explain that I was so sick I could barely swallow anything.

“I’ll send a tray of food up as soon as I leave. Eat when you wake up. What did you do? Why did they want to scare you?”

“I’m a writer, and I interviewed as many people as I could about life under Mao.”

It was the first time I’d defined myself as a writer; I was just trying it on for size. Although I had been writing since I was a child, now, at 42, I was a successful CPA. Writing was just a hobby. It was as if the earth had shifted on its axis. It fit perfectly. I am a writer, I thought. As I continued to let the words play over and over in my mind, I laid my head back and took it all in. It was the first moment that I knew I not only could write, but that I had stories to tell.

“Thank you,” he said simply. He leaned forward and whispered in my ear. “Didn’t you know the rooms are all bugged?”

My visit took place just four short months before the incident at Tiananmen Square in April of 1989, when the start of the democracy movement in China became known to the world. The Chinese government officials must have feared that I was a foreign instigator of democracy. And, maybe, in some small way, I was.

I met Amin when he came back to visit his family in Iran after living in the U.S. for three years. After we got married, we stayed with his mother and sister in my hometown for two weeks before going to Tehran en route to the U.S. To my horror, I saw that he sometimes attacked and beat his little sister.

While in Tehran, I noticed he was very controlling. As long as I agreed with him on anything — good or bad — I was a good wife in his eyes. I hoped that when we got away from the family and he wasn’t showing off, everything would be fine. I was careful not to give him an excuse to become violent with me.

But two days before we flew to the U.S., he beat me so badly that I couldn’t breathe and collapsed. I knew in less than 48 hours, I was flying thousands of miles away with him. I was afraid if I told anyone, he would find out and only make the situation worse. Not only was divorce considered shameful for a woman at that time, but post-Iranian Revolution, I had no right to divorce anyway.

Since there was nothing I could do in Iran to save myself, I hoped that moving away would solve the problem. Once we got to Houston, TX, where my husband was going to school and working, he continued to be controlling and abusive emotionally, verbally, physically and financially. Though I feared for my life, I had no one to confide in. After eight months of English classes, I could finally communicate with people, but my husband didn’t allow me to have friends so I was still lonely.

Every little move I made — from laughing or speaking too loudly to dressing in my own way — was a trigger for Amin’s anger. I tried to keep quiet and was no longer the active, funny, happy girl I had been before marrying him.

Soon, I became pregnant and hoped bringing a child into our lives would change everything. When I was two months pregnant, he pushed me down the stairs, leaving bruises, as well as a deep cut to my face that took years to completely heal.

Shortly afterwards, a friend Amin had invited to dinner asked about my injury. I said I fell down the stairs. He turned to my husband and said, “If a man does something like that to his wife here in America, he would go to jail for a long time.” After the visitor left, Amin beat me, because he thought I somehow had revealed what really happened.

But what that man said had been my wake-up call. From that moment on, I knew that in this country, I could do something to stop Amin. I felt that I, as a woman, had power and a voice in America; I just didn’t know how to use it. I vowed to find out about American laws for women. That realization was my VIV Moment.

Finally, in 1981, I escaped to a women’s shelter with my 3-month-old baby boy. But I was unprepared and didn’t take my documents. Amin tried to communicate with me through a friend, expressing regret for what he had done to us and asking for one more chance. After two weeks, I went back to him, to get my documents and to see if he’d changed. I thought I could hold my own if he kept abusing me.

I was surprised and impressed to find a changed man. I thought he really must have missed us during those weeks.

As soon as he finished school about a year later, he decided to move back to Iran.

He loved living in the United States, so I was surprised by his decision, but I agreed with him to show my appreciation for becoming a much better person for his family. But deep down, I felt it was wrong.

In 1982, when my baby was only 1 year old, we flew to London. As soon as we boarded the plane from London to Iran, I noticed a change in Amin. Is he becoming a monster again? I wondered. But I was trapped on a plane heading back to Iran. As soon as the plane landed at the Tehran airport, he turned to me and said, “Let’s see who has power here.”

I lived in Iran for 15 long years and I was blessed with two more boys. During this time, I lived under the control of an opium-addicted, alcoholic abuser. He hid all my documents, so I couldn’t leave, not even when he became a polygamist and took another wife. He beat her as well, often punching her in the head, so he wouldn’t leave any noticeable bruises.

As a female, I had no right to get a divorce. I got a job and started working as a teacher. The money that I saved during those years saved our lives. I couldn’t do more than my best for freedom. Even I was amazed by my strength and the unknown power inside me. I would not be afraid.

I kept in my mind that realization I had: In America, I would have rights. I wrote about my journey and this time, and how my children and I escaped to the U.S., in The Darkest Days of My Life in the U.S. and Iran (Dorrance Publishing Co., 2009). I wanted to share how difficult it is for many women in some other countries to get out of an abusive relationship and to inspire American women to use their power and rights to escape violent relationships. I regretted going back to my husband while we were in the U.S., and, during those 15 years in Iran, often thought of the chance of escape I’d lost.

My sister lived in the United States, and she took my oldest, American-born son, Bob, from Iran as soon as he turned 15. During this time, my husband was immersed in his messy lifestyle and didn’t care about anything or anybody, so I took advantage of the situation. After six months, I asked my husband if I could go and visit Bob. Not knowing of my savings, he said I could go as long as I didn’t ask him for money. When he was in a drug haze, I had him sign the papers so I could leave the country. I was free. I joined Bob and then shortly after, my two other boys got the lottery green card and joined us.

Everything came together at the right time. After a 17-year journey, I ended up in America, country of humanity, human rights, equality and women’s rights. A country where every single person counts and has value. A country where every single person has a voice.

Though I tried my best to measure up to my mother’s exacting standards, I would inevitably slip up and present her with a reason to give me the cold shoulder. This was her way of molding me into the perfect little lady who met all the criteria set by the culture mores of the era. As I passed from youth into womanhood, I longed to break free from the ideology handed to me through the loving — but erroneous — beliefs of my mother.

I didn’t rebel. I didn’t know I could. And so I grew into my teens, 20s and beyond, according to the guidelines my mother set for me.

I obtained a degree in speech therapy so I might follow one of the few career paths considered acceptable for a young woman in those days: teaching or nursing. I was married at age 20 and had two children by the time I was 25.

I found myself teaching, running a household and bringing up two children, when I hardly knew how to take care of my own emotional needs. With each passing year I found it more difficult to figure out just who I was. Without the labels of someone’s daughter, wife or mother, I had no way to define myself.

By 1989, my husband and I had grown apart and divorced. Our children were young adults and saw the necessity of our separation, supporting me as I pursued a new path. This included a new marriage to the loving man who has now been my husband of almost 20 years.

He introduced me to a marriage-and-family counselor named Kathy, a supportive woman who quickly became my friend, as she shared with me her encouraging counsel. Kathy inspired me to recognize the potential for growth I had repressed for so many years.

My VIV Moment happened the day I was celebrating Kathy’s 60th birthday. Having had a difficult time with my own birthdays, I asked her how she continued to count each year as a blessing. I had bought into the negative cultural stereotypes of older American women, and had assumed each passing year meant I was less able to live a vibrant and meaningful life. This last major stumbling block to fully accepting myself was my inability to acknowledge that I was growing older. At that moment, I realized I needed to change my way of thinking. If I couldn’t accept who I was at 47, how was I going to accept myself as I grew older?

It was at Kathy’s suggestion that I set out to speak to as many other women as possible, to learn how they felt about the aging process and find out how they dealt with the advancing years. She added, “Oh, and you’re a writer, so why don’t you write a book?”

I had written many poems and essays, short stories and children’s stories, but never believed I had it in me to write a book. Yet, as I embarked on this project, I quickly recognized that a book was just what I needed, to write and read myself, as well as share with others facing the same age-related issues I was dealing with. So I set off to interview — and learn from — other women.

What I learned over a period of several years, as I met with women around the country, is that when we are faced with any transition and challenge, we must first accept its existence. Only then can we work through it and recognize our strengths, forgive our weaknesses and grow in self-confidence.

It is this concept of acceptance that brought me back to my college course in the ancient Chinese philosophy of acceptance: Taoism. I eventually discovered and embraced my true identity through the study of the Tao, which teaches us to follow our lives according to the natural flow of the universe.

Taoism translates to “the path” or “way.” The Tao reveals the principle of “Tsu jan,” life with its challenges and transitions happen of their own accord; “Wu Wei,” one cannot fight against the natural order of nature; “Yin and Yang,” the balance of opposites in the universe; and “Te,” which signifies the virtue of living up to one’s individual personal qualities or strengths. Te — that’s the one I had never comprehended. I realized that I did, indeed, have many strengths and fine qualities that I had never revealed. Through understanding of the Tao, I had to finally learn to be defiant.

The word “defiant” usually has a negative connotation, signifying petulance, negativity and obstinacy. Yet I had discovered a way to defy not only the stereotypes that kept me from uncovering my own unique essence, but the self-doubts and negativity that held me back from personal success and joy. The defiance I sought came from a place of healing and brought about inner peace and self-esteem. As I revisited the ancient Chinese philosophy of the Tao, I added to its philosophy of acceptance a dash of healthy defiance.

The more I studied, the more I learned that I was more than the “lady” I had been taught to be. I was a complex woman who had ideas, thoughts, needs, desires and skills unique to me. I began by learning to accept my body. I took banjo lessons, learned to swim, began hiking in earnest and participated in 60-mile walks for breast-cancer research.

I continued my self-education of the Tao, and ultimately wrote The Tao of the Defiant Woman: A Guide to Life Over 40: Accepting What We Must—And Rebelling Against the Rest (Eronel Publishing, 2005), which explained the importance of living life with a Tao and defiant philosophy.

At one of the many book-related speaking engagements and workshops for women around the country, I met a group of mothers who wanted me to share my philosophy with their young daughters. And thus began my work with girls ages 11–18, from all socio-economic backgrounds, propelling me to write Tao-Girls Rule! (Eronel Publishing, 2009) in which I share my philosophy of Tao — though I replace “defiant” with “dynamic,” when working with the girls. They recognize the impossible standards that the media is handing them and want to break out of the mold. They are learning to understand their strengths and use them to the best of their abilities, and to forgive themselves their weaknesses. In short, these girls want to live true to themselves.

When I meet with teens, pre-teens and “tweens” today, I see myself as I was 50 years ago: eager to connect to the world on my own terms, yet not giving myself permission to do so. For bullies exist, not only in the form of peers or cyber-bullying, but in the harmful stereotypes that still persist. The ones that tell these girls how thin they should be, or how smart (or not) or what “cool” activities in which to engage. If I can reach any of these girls, help them find their own way now, perhaps I will be saving them from the struggle I suffered as I worked my way through my own insecurities. And then they, in turn, will be positive and courageous role models for their daughters — as now I strive to be for my daughters and granddaughters.

I feel that my life has come full-circle. From a child who did not allow herself to express her own needs and was molded to fit an elusive stereotype, I have now blossomed into a woman who continues to grow into her true self. And I am privileged to help others following in my path. By embracing my own personal philosophy, I ultimately found the virtue in accepting myself through every phase of my life. My rite of passage came late in life, but it did come. And for that I am very grateful.

A few months earlier that year (2004), I had decided to move to Seoul, South Korea, with my husband, Rich, and four children, aged 5 months to 5 years. After living at different points in my life in Milan, Brussels, London and Paris — as well as another 2½ years spent in an international role working throughout Asia — I was a very seasoned traveler who enjoyed being immersed in different cultures.

My husband’s work jaunt in South Korea initially sounded like a great adventure for our family. But from day one in Seoul, the experience was a culture shock. My husband was in an extremely challenging role and was one of a few “Westerners,” so we couldn’t socialize with a lot of fellow company expats. Compelling work issues meant my husband was almost always at his job and rarely home.

I felt extremely isolated and alone. This night resembled one of many. I would put the kids to sleep, and sit in a chair and listen until I heard the peaceful breathing of sleeping children. Then I would come downstairs and plant myself by the window, staring out at the lights of the city, and the people going home to their families across the beautiful bridge. I stared out the window, a glass of wine in hand, and felt empty and sad. I imagined myself as the Rapunzel of Korea.

Out of pride, I didn’t tell anyone how I felt. I had gone to Harvard Business School and started a successful career at GE.  I left the work force only when our oldest daughter, age 4 at the time, needed an open-heart surgical procedure. Due to the number of tests and severity of the situation, I had to take a leave from my demanding role to really focus on family. I had always considered myself lucky to have a wonderful family and a great marriage. I was not used to feeling this way.

When summer arrived, the kids and I went to Connecticut, where we had kept our home so they could go to summer camp and see family and friends.  My husband stayed in Korea to work.  I told even my closest friends and family that things were fine. They all told me they admired my strength and commented on how lucky Rich was to have such an understanding wife. But the truth is, I did not like my husband much. I felt he had abandoned me.  And I liked myself even less for being so lost and empty.

During that summer, I toyed with just not going back. There were so many challenges — medical concerns, school issues and my husband’s work schedule, in addition to enormous cultural difficulties. No one would have thought it crazy.

But during that summer, I made a plan for myself to bring joy and purpose back into my life. My VIV Moment was when I decided  I would try to give Korea a chance.

I would go to Korean language school and start working out a gym with other people. I was going to accept offers for kids’ play dates and open myself up to meeting new people. This may sound obvious, but it was so hard to make the first move.

I returned with a renewed sense of purpose. Once enrolled in Korean school, I discovered that learning a character language is as hard as it sounds. But Korean people are so friendly and encouraging. They appreciate someone taking the time to learn their language and culture.

I learned something important — when I was speaking English with someone, the person was always translating in his or her head and never really looking into my face.  When I would speak Korean, she would see me as a person, humbled and embarrassed by all the mistakes I was making. After this, I made very supportive and good friends quickly.

I also learned the cultural differences were not as great as I thought. I started to love the unique holidays and traditions. Most people are just trying to do the best they can for themselves and their families. People want to be liked and respected, and will always accommodate a new friendship.

I started to see other perspectives more clearly. Running an English book program in the international school, I heard some of the Korean moms express disappointment over the limited good children’s stories that were Asian-inspired and included lovable Asian characters and great story lines. This led me to create the Fujimini Adventure Series of Asian-inspired children’s books.

So my story is about finding my way back, when I was the only one who knew how truly lost I’d really become. Though I do love my husband, this was a journey I had to spearhead on my own. I had to make the necessary difficult steps and open myself up to new friends and experiences. I stopped thinking I was the Rapunzel of Korea and started enjoying the view.

We both worked for the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center, and met at the company picnic, held at an amusement park. (We still occasionally go back to ride our favorite roller coaster.) He asked me to lunch the following week, and I accepted, thinking it would be interesting to learn something about what was then a mysterious part of the world for me.

I must confess that I knew little about Turkey. He showed tremendous patience in answering what now seem like very silly questions. “Does your mother wear a veil?” I asked.  “No,” he answered. “What alphabet do you use?” I asked. “The same one you do with a few additional letters,” he responded.

We had been dating for about a year and were sitting in his car after an evening out when I suddenly realized I didn’t want to live without him. That was my VIV Moment: In that instant, I knew it was right. He was handsome and very bright, as well as very devoted to his family, which is something I value highly.

Enis and I had nothing in common: I’m a writer and editor; he’s a software engineer. I grew up in New Castle, PA; he grew up in Izmir, Turkey. I was raised Roman Catholic, and he was raised a Muslim. (Though neither of us is religious, so that is not an issue. As it turns out, we were married by a Jewish judge.)

Soon after that evening, we announced our plans to marry. My mother was concerned about cultural differences, but my father liked him a lot and was on board immediately.  Actually, some things that might get in the way in a relationship with an American don’t in our case. My American politics are his, for example. And his Turkish politics are mine. Like all couples, we have our differences but try hard to compromise. Our families are very supportive as well. (My mother came around when she discovered what a devoted son-in-law he became).

Marrying Enis opened a new world to me.  We visit his family in Turkey at least once a year, and I’m slowly improving my Turkish. His brother and his family visit us in the United States, too.  It’s great fun to exchange tour guide duties. Most Americans I meet shrink from the idea of visiting Turkey, but they truly don’t know what they’re missing. Europeans flock there on vacation, having discovered amazing Turkish cuisine and hospitality.

In September 2010, Enis and I celebrated 20 years of marriage. I often talk to women who limit themselves with lists of qualifications for a potential mate. If I had made up my mind that I would marry only an American with similar interests, I would not have been open to a relationship with Enis. I can’t imagine life without him now.