There are days when I wake up thinking about all the people I have met over the years - a child laughing under the scorching Tanzanian sun, a young woman in India clutching her scholarship letter, a mother in a refugee camp holding her baby close. They don’t know it, but they’re the reason I do what I do.

When people talk about legacy, they often speak about achievements, power, or success.
But legacy, to me, isn’t loud; it’s quiet and lives in the small, unspoken changes that ripple through lives long after you’ve walked away.

I didn’t come from privilege. I was raised in a middle-class immigrant family where money was often tight but love was never in short supply. My parents taught me that kindness is never wasted – even when nobody’s watching. My mother used to say, “What you give will always find its way back to you.”
I didn’t fully understand it then - now I do.

The Detour That Became My Calling

I wanted to be a doctor once. To heal people. That was the plan. But life - with its unpredictable grace - had other intentions. I found myself in business instead, navigating industries I knew nothing about. I failed, learnt, rebuilt, and grew.

Somewhere along the way, I realised that business could be another form of healing - not of bodies, but of lives. If done right, it can build communities, create opportunities, and offer dignity where there was once despair.

Over the decades, I worked across agriculture, trade, real estate, and healthcare. I learnt how fragile yet powerful human potential can be and how much of it is lost when people aren’t given a fair chance. That thought still keeps me awake some nights.

Building Something That Breathes

In 2002, I created the Saba Family Foundation in honour of my father. He was a simple man – generous, quiet, and deeply human. I wanted the foundation to carry that same spirit: help quietly, consistently, and meaningfully.

One of my earliest visits after launching it was to a school in Tanzania. The girls there were missing classes every month because they didn’t have basic menstrual facilities. When we built them, one of the youngest girls looked up at me, her eyes shining, and said, “Now I can come every day.”
It broke me a little - and it healed me too.

In India, years later, I got a call from a young woman who had received one of our scholarships. She was crying so hard I could barely understand her. Finally, she said, “Mam, I am going to be a doctor.” I sat in silence for a long time after that call, thinking about how far one small act of faith can go.

The Women Who Teach Me Strength

As a self-made woman, I’ve lived through rooms that weren’t built for me. I’ve been dismissed, doubted, and underestimated, and that’s exactly why I dedicate so much of my time to helping other women build their own paths.

I remember a woman named Asha who ran a tiny textile business. She was ready to close it down when we first spoke. “It’s too hard,” she said. We sat over cups of chai and talked about markets, design, and branding - but mostly about belief. One year later, she sent me a picture of her first international shipment. I saved that photo. It’s still on my desk.

The Quiet Corners of My Life

Beyond the boardrooms and the foundation, there’s another side of me - the one that loves cooking, writing, and the chaos of my five dogs and four cats. My home is loud and warm and always smells of food. That’s where I feel most human.

I wrote The Abbreviated Cook during nights when I needed calm - recipes from the places I’ve travelled, from kitchens where I was welcomed like family. Food, like kindness, connects people without words.

Once, while making soup, I got a call from a student I had mentored. She said, “I passed.” Just that. Two words. I laughed, cried, burnt the onions, and didn’t care. That’s what fulfilment feels like – messy, honest, complete.

What I Hope to Leave Behind

When my time here is done, I don’t want people to remember me for the companies I built or the awards I received. Those are chapters. What I truly want remembered are the lives that changed because someone; maybe just once - believed in them and understood their hardship.

I want my legacy to live in classrooms where girls dream without fear, in women who refuse to give up, and in communities that rise together instead of apart.

My life has been about building bridges - between privilege and poverty, between opportunity and access, and between despair and hope.

If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s this: legacy isn’t built when we’re gone - it’s built in every moment we choose compassion over convenience.

I don’t know how long my name will last in the world’s memory. But I do know that kindness endures.

And that’s enough.