Sometimes an idea comes to me before I know why. Over time, I’ve learned to trust that feeling—to explore what piqued my curiosity and dig into what made the matter meaningful.
Lately, I’ve been leaving things behind, intentionally. Objects that hold meaning, ones that might one day draw me back. I don’t collect valuables, but I do grow attached to specific items—things I’ve spent time with, like a pen, a desk, or a lamp.
Leaving a place is rarely ideal. But I remind myself that life is short, and I’m grateful to have had the privilege of movement in this life. Moving to Canada, for instance, was a difficult choice; a trade-off between the comfort of family and friends and the potential for a brighter future.
Over the years, I’ve developed a habit: when leaving a place, I often leave behind an object—not deliberately at first, but it became intentional as time went on. These objects, I imagined, might greet me on my return and spark excitement to resume what was left behind.
One such object was a wooden meeting table in our Toronto office, which we closed just before COVID. My father and I had built that table together. He was insistent on adding a power outlet to the tabletop, wiring it perfectly so everyone could charge their devices with ease. For years, it was the centerpiece of many productive meetings.
When my father fell ill, I had to leave Toronto and fly back to Iran. It was a bittersweet goodbye, and I decided to let the office go along with most of its furniture. However, I asked the team taking over our space to keep the table for me, hoping I might reclaim it someday.
Years passed. My father passed away—a loss that lingered in every corner of my life. He had always thought my move from Toronto was a mistake, but I carried his memory with me in everything I did. After COVID, when the same building and unit became available, I returned to Toronto, hoping to reunite with that table.
The team who had taken it no longer occupied the office. They had moved on but shared photos on Instagram of celebrations around my table. I was genuinely happy to still see our table was still in one piece, featured in such joyful moments, even as they didn’t respond to my messages.
For weeks, I waited and tried to reach them, but there was no reply. I stood in the same room where the table once lived, hoping to reclaim that connection to my father. Eventually, I let go. I built a new table—not as beautiful, not as meaningful, but mine nonetheless.
That experience taught me something: leaving something behind is a way of staying connected, but it’s not always about holding on. Sometimes, it’s about making room for new beginnings.
Last year, I left a whiteboard behind, fully aware of what I was doing. That small act led to something bigger—a new office and a new business built on one of my oldest ideas.