Anitha Aswath has spent 27 years working across industries, coaching leaders, and shaping teams. A consultant, coach, and facilitator, her work spans leadership development, unconscious bias awareness, and deep listening. But beyond her professional identity, Anitha is also the host of Mynd Durbar, a podcast that explores human experiences with authenticity, vulnerability, and depth.

In this conversation, Anitha opens up about childhood, loss, resilience, music, and love—the forces that have shaped her journey. She speaks with the same raw honesty and warmth that make her such a compelling voice in the Mynd Durbar podcast.

Who was Anitha as a child? What shaped her early years?

Lonely and friendless—hahaha! I was bullied for wearing glasses and for being chubby. They called me a devil, an imp, a destructive child. The only one who consistently loved and protected me was my sister. I learned early on that the world isn’t always a kind place, but I also learned that there will always be souls who protect you.

Like my ayah, Lakshmamma, who would sigh and say, “Yaak dina hodoskotheeya maga?” (Why do you get beaten and scolded every day, my child?)

Is there a childhood memory that stands out—good or bad?

I didn’t have a happy childhood, though I had a caring and protective family. I was well provided for, but I was disobedient, which didn’t sit well with my disciplinarian father. My most vivid memories? Getting beaten almost every day and going to bed in tears.

But I don’t want my dad to come across as demonic, so here’s a happy one. Summers spent playing with my neighbors from Alwar, Rajasthan—Four Corners, I Spy, Dark Room, Lagori, and Hopscotch. Those were good times.

Where do you find hope and resilience?

The Sun. The reminder that tomorrow will always arrive, bathed in light. That’s my hope.

And then, there’s the undeniable resilience of the human spirit. The knowledge that I’ve been through so much, and yet, I’m still here. Broken and bruised, maybe. But whole. With my head and heart intact. What more could one ask for?

What’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to overcome?

Losing my mother. Becoming a motherless daughter. Of all the losses I’ve experienced, this was the hardest. Three decades later, it still hurts. It’s a grief I’ve never fully put down.

I told myself that I was a daughter of fire and vowed to honor her life and legacy. But I wouldn’t have made it without my sister. If I am still alive, whole, and intact, I owe so much to her.

And my brother-in-law—my rock, my go-to space of trust and confidence. And my niece, my nephew, my aunt. As they say, it takes a village to raise a child—but also to preserve us as adults.

You’ve spoken about the joy that music brings you. How has it healed you?

Oh my… music is a space I can step into anytime, anywhere. A magical, mystical mother who takes me in her arms and allows me to feel everything.

In Indian music, we say:
“Shruthi Maata, Laya Pita”—Shruthi (pitch) is the mother, and Laya (rhythm) is the father. The feminine and masculine, intertwining.

Our music holds a space beyond words. Beyond language. There’s a metaphysical, somatic, and emotional experience that defies description. And when we surrender to it, we develop fluency in a language that doesn’t need words.

There was always music in my house. My father played Dr. M. Balamurali Krishna, Dr. MS Subbulakshmi, Hemant Kumar, KL Saigal, MD Ramanathan, Pt. Bhimsen Joshi, Ustad Bismillah Khan. He played the radio and shared stories of Chembai.

Music wasn’t just a presence. It was a companion. A refuge. A way home.

What daily practices keep you grounded?

I drop the ego. I always ask myself, “What would love do?” I fall face down plenty of times—but I get up and keep moving. Hahaha!

And the Sun. Always, the Sun. Sunlight gives me unbeatable hope. Also, my social media feed? Kittens. Puppies. Baby animals. People tending to them, basking in their love. That’s my daily news. It’s impossible to stay cynical when surrounded by such pure, precious love.

But when the weight of the world feels unbearable, I return to my prayer:
“I go for refuge until enlightenment to the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. May I attain Buddhahood for the benefit of all sentient beings.”

How do we process loss—the loss of a person, a job, a relationship?

I’ve experienced all those losses, like so many others. To manage loss is to grieve.

But we try to postpone grief—or drink it away, laugh it away, therapy it away, like Cheryl Strayed says. But it always returns, in double measure. Some losses never leave us. It’s best to meet grief when she arrives—not tell her, “Later.” Sit with her. Listen to her. She wants to be seen, heard and held. Touch her with mercy. People say we resist change. But the truth? We resist loss. Making friends with change, with transition, has been life-saving for me. And accepting that nothing is for sure. We think we own things—our partners, our jobs, our titles, our homes, our children, our parents. But we don’t even own our own breath.

Who are we kidding?

How do we move through the hardest moments?

By allowing emotions to come and go. By making space for them instead of pushing them away.

And by nurturing what’s still whole. What’s still unbroken. By choosing movement. By choosing music. By choosing art. By choosing, most of all, service. How often do we hear of people turning personal tragedy into a lifetime of service? That’s how we move forward. And, as always, the Sun will rise again. Even when it’s scorching, even when it burns, it still offers light.

What’s life’s greatest lesson?

That love outlives everything. Ego, pride, fear, rage, anxiety, resentment, sorrow—love outlasts them all.