High Wire: The Moth Radio Hour

Hey, it's Chloe Salmon from The Moth. As a story director, I talk to a lot of people who say they want to tell a story but don't know where to start. A tip I give them, get specific. What's a moment that meant something to you? Your first home run, that road trip with your dad, the time you bombed at the talent show. Start there, then build on that foundation. You can find tips to help you identify those moments along with prompts to inspire them in The Moth's new guided journal, My Life in Stories. Whether you want to find your own story, reflect on your life, or even give it as a gift, you can order your copy at themoth.org forward slash my life in stories. That's themoth.org forward slash my life in stories. This episode is brought to you by Expedia and Visit Scotland. Start your story in Scotland. Experience the pool of wide untamed landscapes and fresh cuisine that feels rooted in place. Discover castles steeped in legend. And feel the genuine warmth from locals you meet in a place that will stay with you long after you leave. Start planning your own Scottish holiday today at Expedia.co.uk slash Visit Scotland. From working title, producers of Bridget Jones and Love Actually. I'm looking for this girl called Emily. I'll help you find her. Comes the truly feel good British romcom that's being called a five star instant classic. Tell me, you didn't have the school email, what message every Emily. Hailed as hilarious and original. Hey, Emily. It's Notting Hill for a new generation. I don't think that's the wrong number. Just didn't write number you, did you? Finding Emily. Only in cinemas May 22nd. Book tickets now. This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm your host, Suzanne Rust. You don't have to join the circus to perform acts of bravura. Life itself is a high wire act. We are constantly putting ourselves on the line, taking risks and searching for balance. This episode features stories about finding your equilibrium when life knocks you sideways. Sometimes you just have to step out on that wire and be brave enough to go across. But sometimes, like our first teller, you just have to join the circus. This story was told by Tiffany McKinney at a Detroit slam. Here's Tiffany, live at the Moth. OK, I'm going to get close and not touch the mic. OK. All right. I don't know. All right. Hey, this is scary. OK. You got it. I woke up one morning, opened my eyes, and waited. I knew this morning would be the same as every other morning had been for the past two months. My husband and best friend of 22 years had passed away. And I waited for grief to greet me. I waited for my brain to start the same argument to just stay in the bed and not get up. But I did. I got up, and it was Monday. I checked my cell phone, and I smiled. My group of girlfriends, they were texting me, giving me messages of encouragement, telling me they were proud of me and sending me memes of hoops of fire, someone taming a lion and a lady in a sparkly leotard flying through the air. The week prior, I had decided I had to do something to make myself feel better, something to help me find joy. And I was working with a personal trainer. I had signed up for a swim class. When I saw a local news segment interviewing the owner of the Detroit Flyhouse Circus. Yes. So I said, ooh. But what I was really impressed about is they had aerial silks. And I don't know if you know what that is. But it's the fabric in the air, and you see the fancy ladies up there in their sparkly costumes swinging through the air. And I could just see myself in the sparkly leotard. So I joined the circus. That Monday was to be my first day of circus training. So I put on my T-shirt and my leggings, the uniform of circus people, I guess, and went down to the Detroit Flyhouse Circus. So when I got there, I mean, it was just a warehouse. I wasn't impressed. But I don't know what I expected to see. But I was still excited. And there was about a group of eight of us. And as you can imagine, we were a very eclectic group down there ready to take circus classes. And so they divided the class up into two groups. And my group started first on the aerial silks. And you could see the silk in the air was so beautiful. It's purple. And the instructor walks over and pulls the cord. And I mean, it just dramatically flowed from the ceiling. It was so beautiful. And I was so excited. So we stood in a line. And the instructor told us he taught us how to hold and mount the fabric and pull ourselves up. So I'm standing last in the line of four people. And one by one, the first person goes up, wraps their arm up, wraps their foot up, and pulls himself up the air. So eventually, it's my turn. Now, these people, some of them apparently had had circus training prior to that day. Because they were up there spinning and doing all kind of flips and tricks. And I'm mesmerized, not thinking, eventually, it's going to be my turn. But once I grabbed onto the rope and I felt the weight of myself, like, I promise you, it was not until that point that I actually thought about it. And like, reality crashed. It like slapped me in the face. And I'm thinking, first of all, I'm heavy. Second of all, I mean, I'm probably the oldest one in this room. I was older than everybody, including that little instructor. And I'm out of shape. But I'm there now. So I'm holding on. And I'm trying to pull myself up. And as I'm trying, I managed to get like two feet off the ground. But my foot is tangled up in the fabric and it's squeezing it so tightly. And it hurts. So I kind of fumble my way down. And I'm embarrassed. And I'm sweating. OK. And I'm out of breath. But everybody is just kind of gracious. And we just go with it. And the instructor continues to tell us how to do these other tricks on the silks. And every time I'm last in the line of four. And these people just get up there and spin around and make it look so easy. And it's my turn. And I'm out of breath. And I'm out of shape. And I'm so embarrassed. So about an hour in, we take a break. And at this point, I am just overwhelmed. I'm so humiliated. And I'm still sweating. And I just decided, first of all, I couldn't look anybody in the face. So I just said, keep your head down. Get your purse. Get in the car. Go home. So I grabbed my purse. I walked out the door. I got into the parking lot. And I promised you, as soon as my foot hit the parking lot, I felt the Lord speak to me and remind me that this was my story. Nobody in there knew that every single day I was fighting for the will to live. Nobody knew how hard it was. And nobody else had that story. And I wasn't going to let them take this little bit of joy from me. So I wiped my face. I turned around and went back to the circus. So the second half of class, we still have to finish the class. The second half of class, we learned tricks on a hoop. Now, when I signed up for this, in my mind, I thought, what? Hula hoop. Because I see ladies at the circus using a hula hoop. No. This is a thin metal hoop hanging about five feet off the ground from this thick rope. And oh, god. Here we go. I'm thinking I'm going to have my Rocky moment. This is going to be it. But that's not what happened. So the instructor starts again. And he's telling us how to get up on this hoop or whatever. And again, I'm last in the line of four people. And it's just as hard. I'm struggling. I'm sweating. They even had to lower that hoop down one foot just for me. But let me tell you something. By the time I pulled all 230 pounds up on that little metal hoop, the entire class was cheering for me, including me and Struck. I almost cried. I was so excited. And so I just, I had my moment. I took it. I closed my eyes. And I leaned back. And I pictured myself in this sparkly, leotard. And when I opened my eyes, the little instructor was standing there. He was like, you want me to take your picture? No, sir. I know this is not look like anything like what it does in my head. Just leave me be. So needless to say, life is still not what I expected it to be. It's still messy. It's still hard. I still have to be reminded that this is my story. And I get to walk it out however I choose. But I know how to find joy even in the hard things. And while I finished that six week class, I did not return to the circus. Instead of hoping for a sparkly, leotard, I just went to Target and bought one. That was Tiffany McKinney. She is an entrepreneur and speaker. Tiffany has given up the hoops and silks, but she has other goals. Every day she looks for people she can encourage. She feels privileged to share the knowledge that hard things, terrible things can happen. But she believes that you can still find joy on the other side of it. On that note, Tiffany says that she is on a never-ending quest for a pina colada. To see a photo of Tiffany, head to themoth.org in the radio extras. There are moments in life when just being who you are is an extreme act of bravery and act of defiance. Our next story was told by Dave Lara, who shared it at a Moth main stage in New London, Connecticut, where we partner with Guard Arts Center for the first time in the world. And she is a great artist. She is a great artist. She is a great artist. She is a great artist. She is a great artist.哎哎哎哎哎哎哎哎哎哎哎哎哎哎哎哎 experiences, wives, children, regular jobs, they were drinking buddies. And you can depend on these band of brothers to get you through the worst that war threw at you. My mother died and an absent father made a life-changing event for me. I was 17 and the juvenile courts of Los Angeles declared me an adult. They called me emancipated. So I took my emancipated ass and I joined the Navy. But I didn't have a band of brothers. I was a criminal. Being gay had laws against my existence. There were penalties that included jail, whether I was in or outside of the military. There were witch hunts looking for me in my kind. But I had no choice. I made it through boot camp and was assigned to hospital core school to become sort of a nurse. Not quite a doctor, but most definitely a bed pan washer. I joke of course. A hospital corpsman does what a doctor does to save a man's life in the field. After I finished, I got orders to the USS Repose, a hospital ship off the coast of Vietnam. Most of my time would be on that ship. I was lucky. I remember it was raining when I landed in Vietnam. And with the red mud and green uniforms of the Marines, everything became sepia toned, like in the movie Wizard of Oz, with its friends of Dorothy's. My ship wasn't on station. So I had to spend like 12 days up at an aid station near the DMZ called Dang Ha. Two corpsmen, Matt and Joe, were assigned to me and got me up to speed on my temporary duties. Matt was a short, stocky, blonde, cute little fucker. And he was battle-hardened and strong. That was in love. Joe, a big burly Polish guy. Well, he had a droll sense of humor. He was so much fun to be around. They happened to be gay. Yeah, even then we had gay dart. It usually started with the question, so do you have a girlfriend? In war, you make friends fast. And so as I reported to my ship, we agreed that we were going to get together somehow. And that opportunity came quick. The repose, my hospital ship, was scheduled to spend R&R in Hong Kong for New Year's Eve. Joe and Matt got the time off, joined me and two other gays that I'd found on the ship at the Hong Kong Hilton. We rented a double suite and we spent the whole night talking about what it was like being gay. It was the first time we had ever been around our own kind. When the others went back to bed finally, Matt and I stayed up talking seriously if two men could make a life together. Everybody said that we were either insane or criminals. We didn't even know if our love was valid. Matt eventually went to bed saying he just wished he could find someone to love. It was there that we called ourselves the group and that's with a capital T based on a novel by Mary McCarthy. It's a story, a very campy story of women who meet at Vassar and then we follow them through their life, the principal themes being job discrimination, sexism and men, like us. It was rough because I always lose my train of thought at some point. Oh yeah, the group became our band of brothers. We had shared experiences, things that we knew about and like our straight compatriots, our band of brothers got us through the worst of war, the pain, the suffering and the dying. It was a tradition at the time for sailors to buy Zippo lighters and have their ship name, their job title, their base etched on those lighters. We had ours etched with the group and our bond was sealed. I mentioned band of brothers because we were seeing the worst of war. Matt and Joe every day at Dong Han were under constant rocket attacks. I on the ship was seeing suffering and pain. It became routine for men to die in my hands. My 13 months were up and I once again joined Matt and Joe at Dong Han to spend my last week in Vietnam before going back to the world. One day I was there, Matt and I found ourselves alone as we came off a shift and he said, David, why haven't we ever made love? I laughed and I go, dude, we haven't had a chance. But he asked, do you want to, don't you? And I leaned in and kissed him. A few days later, a dust off, a medevac, was needed at a base very close to the DMZ. It was called Kantien and the unit up there were known as the walking dead. Matt went on one chopper, I went on another. Joe was already up there. We landed and we began to load the wounded. A rocket hit the chopper that Matt had come in on and he was standing at the door and was blown several feet. I ran to him. I knew he was dying. And as I looked at him, he had glistening tears in his eyes. And I told him, I wish we could have been lovers. I love you, Matt. I love you. Joe and some Marines were gathered around. Nobody cared that two men could love each other, not there. And then Matt died. He just died. I bent my head on his chest crying. I could hear Joe say, come on, Dave, you got to go. He pointed to the chopper and he said, it's a rotor blades, they're spinning like crazy. If you don't get going, it's going to get blown up too. I just stared at him. He grabbed my chin and he made me look at him and he goes, you've been here long enough. You know how this works. And then he whispered, the friendship's over. Now go. I searched Matt's pockets looking for that zippo, the one inscribed with the group and its capital T. It was 1967 and when I went home, I was alone and in pain and I don't remember anything of my trip going back to the world. In 1970, the witch had caught up with me. I was stationed at Quantic, over Virginia. When I was discharged for the crime of being a homosexual, it was less than honorable. I packed my uniforms and the five medals I had been awarded into my sea bag. And as I left the base for the last time, I threw it into a dumpster. I had been so proud of my medals, but my less than honorable discharged erased them from my service record. I went to Arlington where Matt is buried and I promised him I would do something to change the world so that men like he and I could serve honorably. In the 1970s, I became a soldier in the gay rights movement and I helped establish the first gay men's service center in Los Angeles. In the 80s, I joined an AIDS activist group called Act Up and we were petitioning the government to find treatments for the disease. And in the 2000s, I became members of veterans groups of Iraq and Afghanistan, veterans, to show by my presence that you could survive what war does to you. I still have Matt's zip. It's the same shape as his tombstone, like all the headstones there at Arlington. You know what, I'm not bitter. The Navy gave me more than a Turk. It gave me wisdom. It gave me Matt. And I have kept Matt's lighter as a reminder of the best time of my life and of a man I still love. Thank you. Thank you. That was Dave Lara. Dave came to us through the Moss Community Program via a workshop that we held with veterans in media and entertainment. Dave, who writes novels and performs, describes himself as a retired 79-year-old Mexican Jewish high school dropout who is trying to stay relevant. While Dave says he can do all that he used to, he still considers himself an activist. He still shows up in veteran circles, sharing the story of the group, making sure people know that men like them were always there and died for this country just like everyone else. I've been asked, what would I say to Matt if I could sit down with him right now? This is such a painful question. Do I speak to him as the young man I was or the old man I've become? Because he is forever young to me. I'll answer as the old man. And I would lean into my friend Matt and say, don't worry, my sweet boy, we would have had our chance at love. We did change society, not completely, but enough that what you and I thought was impossible in our youth became real. The journey was brutal. Our small band of brothers, the group, those men didn't achieve acceptance for themselves in life. They never found the strength to fight society. They could not break out of the mold that they had built for themselves. But I did. And I know you would have been right beside me as I fought every single day for the rights and respect you and I deserved. I love you, Matt. I always will. That was Dave Lara. To see some photos of Dave from the time of his story, go to our website, TheMoth.org. In a moment, pushing the limits and pushing your luck when the Moth radio hour continues. The Moth radio hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This is TheMoth Radio Hour and I'm your host, Suzanne Rust. How far would you go to get your colleagues to like you? Martha McBriar went full tilt and she shared her adventure at a London Grand Slam. Here's Martha, live at the Moth. Everybody likes me. I am so nice. I'm actually scary. And I've always been proud of that. And in 2004 I took a community development job in a little Scottish village called Twecker. I was advised not to take the job. I was told they don't like outsiders. They will not like you. And I thought, well, that's not going to happen. So I start the job and it becomes evident that I'm roundly despised. I tried everything to please them. They wanted to learn first aid. I set up a 12 week course. None of them attended. A guy had a heart attack in the foyer of the centre and I got the blame. I set up a break dancing class for the young people and the trainer left because the kids defecated on the bonnet of his car. I asked the women in the mother and toddlers group if they would not smoke round the babies. And they sent round a petition demanding a stopped interfering. It was very, very stressful. One morning one of the committee came in and said, we're holding a gala in a few weeks. We do it every year to raise funds. Can you bake? And I can't say that I can't bake because this will be another reason they've got to hate me. And before I even knew what I had said, I said, oh I'm not doing a bake sale. I'm doing a parachute jump. I've got a lot of sponsors. She said I'll tell the rest of the committee. They all came in and they said, would you like to choose the gala queen? The ultimate respect. I had won them over. One small issue. I suffer from severe vertigo. I am terrified of heights. I can't even look up at a balcony. That's how badly it affects me. But I can't back out. And I tell my sister and she says, are you crazy? This is so dangerous. Why would you do that? She says, come on. Would you rather be this light or dead? And I said, well, dead, obviously. She says, OK, I'll go and get a headstone tomorrow. But she didn't realize Martha she was liked. I said, that would be great. So these people on the village all start being nice to me. They bring me lunch. We have banter. They give me a nickname, jumper. So I cannot back out. The time comes to do the jump. I have two days of safety training. And the instructor said, your parachute should open if it does not punch and your safety parachute should open. If that does not open, you will plunge to your death in 11 seconds. That seemed like a really long time. I saw the plane. It was about the size of a coffee table. And it had no door. So I vomited for two hours. But I went in and I was crying, sobbing with fear. But at 3,000 feet, I jumped from the plane. And my parachute opened. And it was so blissful. It was wonderful. And I came over all Louis Armstrong. And I said, oh, Scotland's really pretty. And I can fly. And just at that, a quite powerful gust of wind blew me. And I couldn't steer past it. And I thought, yeah, this is when I die. But I landed about 24 miles away in the grounds of a lesser known Scottish castle. And I was chased for some time by a rather troubled bull. But it was still one of the best experiences of my life. And I raised 1,000 pounds. But within 48 hours, they reverted back to hating me again. So I resigned. And they got me a leaving card with no signatures on it. And a few years later, I met one of them in town. And she said, oh, it's so lovely to see you. What a shape you left. We always liked you. Thank you. [? Yeah. ?] [? Yeah. ?] That was Martha McBriar, a Scott living in London whose passions are belly dancing, watching true crime, and critiquing the neighbor's recycling. After losing her hearing, she struggled with confidence until she discovered the power of true storytelling. Martha said that the moth gave her her voice back. When Martha reflects on that event, she said that the first thing that comes to mind is an intense feeling of peace while she was in the air and how that moved her to tears. But then she cringes when she remembers that she did something that dramatic to get people to like her. Her last brave act was a hill walk with a friend up Bend Lohmann Mountain in Scotland with inadequate equipment, no sense of direction, and a false sense of optimism. Even when she slipped and fell and dangled from a snowy rock, sobbing with beer, Martha said that she didn't have the heart to tell her friend that she really wasn't enjoying the experience. In a moment, a story of lipstick and memories when the moth radio hour continues. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. This is the Moth Radio Hour. I'm Suzanne Rust. As we end this hour, we have a final exploration of the ways in which life continually challenges us to find our balance and recalibrate. Our last story was told by Arshaia Kapadia, who shared it at a main stage in New Brunswick, where we partnered with the State Theater in New Jersey. Here's Arshaia, live at the Moth. Good evening. How are you doing today? So my name is Arshaia, and I'm made in Bombay, India, where I spent most of my life. I'm an only child, and my mom was a single parent, a teacher. Ammi had a deep love for life and all the finer things in life. Her saree collection was absolutely beautiful. She collected saris from all over India. Her jewelry collection was fabulous, much coerced. She actually had so many incredible pieces that all of her cousins often borrowed. Some of them had never returned it, so maybe I should follow up on that. I remember the house was never empty. She loved cooking. She loved feeding people. Sometimes people were almost sitting on top of each other fighting for that last scoop of biryani. But I think not a lot of people are aware of this, that Ammi had a secret addiction. She was a lover of lipsticks. Her eyes lit up like diamonds when she saw a tube of lipstick. Shiny, creamy, beautiful glistening, just waiting to be applied. Her favorite colors were the darker reds, the maroons, the rusts. Shinnier, the better, I think, was her motto. But I think what she really wanted and lusted were those elusive foreign brands that we didn't get in India back then. They came encased in these shimmery golden tubes, and you were dependent on your foreign relatives to hustle them into the country for you. So she had made a pact with one of her cousins, who lived in London. His name was Khalik, Khalik uncle. We Indians call everybody uncle and auntie, so just roll with that. So Khalik uncle came over the Christmas holidays every year, and without fail, he would bring one of her favorite brands, which was Max Factor. Right before he arrived, a letter would arrive in the mail, in which he would write, my dear Naseema, I'm coming as usual over the Christmas holidays, and I'm bringing the latest shade of Max Factor with me. Ami would be counting down the days, and along with her, so would I. Ami passed away when I was 13. She had stage three breast cancer, and she didn't survive that very long. Within a year, she was God. It was imminent. Since she passed away at around 10 p.m. in the night, and it's customary to bury the dead after one of the five obligatory prayers in the Islamic tradition, it was decided that we would bury her in the morning, after the first prayer of the day. So we brought Ami's body home, and it was kept on these huge chunks of dry ice, in the room, in the room, in the room that I shared with her. I remember standing in that room, seeing her body and wondering, what should I do now? Was there some playbook that people forgot to give me? What should a 13-year-old do? Should I be like lamenting, crying my heart out, or should I be all strong and silent, and pretend to be this really strong, stoic girl? I didn't know. My mother, she has four brothers, and it was decided that they would die after her death. So I remember my eldest uncle, who I call Mamujaan, he came into the room at this point. He came over, and he held me, and he said, are she? Take all the time you want tonight. No one will disturb you. I remember standing in that room, wondering what to do. People kept drifting in and out of the room, to pay their last respects to her, but also to check in on me. But they left me alone, mostly, to my own thoughts. They say the darkest hour of the night is right before dawn. I was dreading dawn. I was hoping the sun would never rise. The night was stretching endlessly ahead of me, and at some point, I think I dozed off. And then, I was in the dark, and then, I heard the birds chirping, the first glimmer of sunshine through the curtains. I got up from the floor, and I walked over to Ami's dressing table. I looked at her precious lipsticks, and I wondered, what will become of you now? Then I heard my eldest uncle, Mamujaan, quietly tipped her into the room. He came over to me, and he said, it's time. In that moment, all I wanted to do was run back to Ami's dressing table, grab one of her favorite lipsticks, and paint her red lips one more time just before she left the house. So I asked my uncle, may I? And he said, sorry, waiter, but that's not allowed. Just say a quiet prayer and let her go. So I said, surely we belong to the Almighty, and to Him we shall return. And they took her away. The next night after Ami's passing away was the longest night of my life. Grief was everywhere I looked, even the pillows were crying. I remember my nanny, my maternal grandmother, she told me once, you know, our she-god is so merciful. Right before he sends the angel of death to take someone's life, he first sends the archangel, Grape Gabriel. You know why he does that? Because he doesn't want to scare the servant with the face of death. He just wants to give folks a gentle heads up. Okay, maybe. I love my grandmother, but this story doesn't make any sense. How can God be the most merciful one when he was showing so much cruelty to me, Ami is a 13-year-old. I didn't know what to do. But maybe, maybe, just maybe, let's consider this, maybe that was the grand plan, that Ami would go first and then this beautiful angel, Gabriel would show up and take me to her to the other side. That would just work out perfectly because I didn't want to live without her, not for a single minute. I sat down waiting for Gabriel, no sign of him. And then I remembered my plan B. Oh yeah, I had a plan B. I'm an only child, remember? We always have a plan B. Unknown to anyone else, I had secretly acquired a tube of rat poison. It was called rat all paste and was easily available back in those days in Indian homes. It was hiding under the bed and now I was clutching it in my hand. And in that moment, all I wanted to do was ingest the whole goddamn fucking tube. Just do it, Arshi, says the voice in my head. Your mother is dead. She's never going to come back. She's never going to find out. And even if she does, it's going to be too late. It's now or never. And then I hear a soft voice in my head. It's hers. She says, promise me, Arshi. If anything were to happen to me, you'll never do anything silly. You won't take your own life. You have to promise me. My mother, of course, she knew me so well. That was her dying wish. Oh, but come on, she's dead, right? Says the voice. You can do this. My head is going to burst into a million pieces. And then my eldest uncle, Mamuja, walks into the room again. He holds me close to him. He pats me. And he says, I know you're going through so much right now. Words are not easy. There are no words to console you. You need help. Ask God for help. Ask for his forgiveness. Ask for his mercy. Start praying. Sure, I do need help, but forgiveness? Why should I be the one asking God for forgiveness? He should be the one asking me for my forgiveness. In fact, he should be begging me for my forgiveness and not the other way around. Oh, Arshi, you'll have so much time to have your one-on-one with God. Now is not the time for arguments. Just be the obedient little Indian girl you are and start praying. Maybe Gabriel will show up. Maybe God will have mercy on you. Okay, so I start praying. La-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la. The night is just ending, and I can feel the darkness closing in on me. I think I pass out on the floor at some point. And then I hear the first birds chirping, the glimmer of sunshine, the curtain start moving. No sign of Gabriel. He didn't show up. Maybe he forgot about me. Maybe he doesn't care enough, or he became busy with chores because he's like working for so many different gods. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. But the message is clear. I have to live. No one is going to come save me. Slowly I find my legs. I get up. I slide the rat poison back under the bed, and I make my way to Ammi's dressing table. One by one, I pick up her lipsticks, and I put them away in one of her favorite jewelry boxes. I close the lid and I say, Khudaaf is Ammi. Farewell. I never opened that box again. I look at it from time to time, but I just let it be. I now live in New Jersey. CHEERING AND APPLAUSE No prize is for guessing that I have a pretty formidable lipstick collection of my own now. I remember the first time I walked into a Sephora, and I bought a beautiful shade of Chanel lipstick. Creamy, creamy glistening, just waiting to be applied. It cost me more than $30. Didn't even bat an eyelid, didn't convert it into Indian rupees. Just paid up. Oh, Ammi, I thought you must be so proud of me. But I haven't really gravitated towards the shiny reds, pinks, you know, those brighter colors that she loved. I'm more of a nude girl myself, so I think that Ammi would have been really disappointed in my choice of lipstick shades. Hey, Ammi, I survived. I live to tell the tale. Haan, thiek hai. It's okay, Arshi beta. Why can't you tell this tale wearing shiny red lipstick? Indian parents. LAUGHTER There's no winning. But I tried, Ammi. I really tried. CHEERING AND APPLAUSE That was Arshaa Kapadia. Arshaa is a global communications leader, storyteller, and mother of twins who has lived across three continents but is now based in the New York tri-state area. Arshaa holds a master in film and television, and back in India, she was a journalist and non-fiction TV producer. She's a great writer, and she's a great writer. She's a great writer. She's a great writer. She's a journalist and non-fiction TV producer, creating some of the country's most iconic shows, including MTV Style Check and Life's Like That. She believes the best stories are the ones we live first and rewrite later. Obviously, I had to know what her favourite lipstick was these days. She said it's a matte crayon lipstick from an Indian brand called Sugar in the shade Lily Aldrin, and she said it's a mauve colour. I was on the subway the other day, and watched a mother lovingly apply some lip gloss to her young teen daughter's lips. She then took out a mirror from her bag so that the girl could admire herself, and they both smiled at the reflection. It was a beautiful, intimate moment that really made me miss my mother, who died when I was just 21. Learning to live through loss and grief is one of the scariest high-wire acts of all. Losing my mother at a young age really shaped me, and I wonder how it shaped Arshaa. She said that it made her realise early on that nothing is guaranteed, not people, not time, not even memories. In Arshaa's words, when you're afraid of forgetting the sound of someone's voice, you start looking for something tangible to hold onto. When the person you rely on most disappears so suddenly, a part of you learns to keep some distance. It's not cynicism, it's self-protection. But it's also made the intentional about the relationships I do have. If I let someone in, it means something. So losing her didn't just shape my grief, it shaped my approach to life. Hold on to what matters, except that some things will fade, and build trust carefully, and gradually, when you find people who feel steady. Those are the words of Arshaa Kapadia. That's it for this episode of the Moth Radio Hour. Thanks to all of our storytellers for being brave enough to step out on the high wire and share their stories, and to all of you for spending some time with us today. We appreciate you and hope you'll join us next time. This episode of the Moth Radio Hour was produced by me, Jay Allison, and Suzanne Rust, who also hosted the show. Co-producer is Vicky Merrick, associate producer Emily Couch. The stories were directed by Jody Powell and Larry Rosen. The Moth's leadership team includes Christina Norman, Marina Cluchet, Sarah Austin-Genez, Jennifer Hickson, Jordan Cardinale, Caledonia Kairns, Kate Tellers, Sarah Jane Johnson, and Patricia Eurena. Dave Laura came to us through the Moth's community program via a workshop that we held with veterans in media and entertainment. Moth stories are true as remembered and affirmed by the storytellers. Our theme music is by The Drift. Other music in this hour is from Epidemic Sound, podcast music, production support from Davy Sumner. The Moth Radio Hour is produced by Atlantic Public Media in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. Special thanks to our friends at Odyssey, including executive producer Leah Reese-Dennis. For more about our podcast for information on pitching us your own story and to learn all about the Moth, go to our website, TheMoth.org.