Ari Honarvar shared their story and experiences with us recently and you can find our conversation below.
Ari, we’re thrilled to have you with us today. Before we jump into your intro and the heart of the interview, let’s start with a bit of an ice breaker: What do the first 90 minutes of your day look like?
I make my bed, brush my teeth, and put on my running clothes while noticing what I’m grateful for: A good night of sleep, a ray of sunlight, birds singing, a capable body, my loved ones, each breath…
Then I hydrate, brew tea, and go for a quick run in the neighborhood. I take a cold shower, which is uncomfortable at first, but at the end I feel more alive and ready to take on the day. I make a green smoothie or rolled oats and eat breakfast. I then I look at my schedule and dive into the rest of the day.
Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
I’m the founder of Rumi with a View, an initiative that brings together the arts, social justice, and wellbeing. My childhood amid war and oppression, along with years of working with underserved communities, inspired me to create Resilience through Joy workshops for refugees, healthcare workers, and social justice advocates on both sides of the U.S.–Mexico border.
As a Musical Ambassador of Peace, I’ve led thousands of sessions and have collaborated with trauma experts, university researchers, and grassroots leaders to share this work with a global audience. My work has been featured in places like The Guardian, TEDx, Teen Vogue, and CNN Español. I’m also the author of the novel A Girl Called Rumi and the bestselling oracle deck Rumi’s Gift.
Great, so let’s dive into your journey a bit more. Who were you before the world told you who you had to be?
I was a wild child, born and raised in Shiraz, Iran—the majestic city of poets and wine—where I fell in love with the lush outdoors and with sports, usually playing alongside boys. I was six when Islamic fundamentalists took over Iran and enacted a gender apartheid. Within months, girls lost their right to sing or ride a bicycle in public. I could no longer play with my best friend (who was a boy) in public. For a couple of years, I pretended to be a boy, cut my hair short, and wore masculine clothing so I could enjoy the same rights as my best friend. But as I grew older, the disguise no longer worked. I was still filled with rage about the injustice and rebelled against the regime in big and small ways until I left Iran for the US at the age of 14.
Those childhood experiences instilled in me an unshakable committment to justice and wellbeing. That’s why I dedicate my life to using my voice, my art, and my work in community to resist dehumanization, cultivate joy, and help others reclaim their freedom.
What have been the defining wounds of your life—and how have you healed them?
Spending most of my childhood during the Iran-Iraq war and oppression, I lived with the soundtrack of sirens and bombings. What hurt more was the quieter but equally heavy weight of oppression—laws that told me what I could wear, say, or dream. Those years left deep wounds: the grief of losing loved ones, the ache of silenced voices, and the disorientation of being displaced, cut from my roots and family.
My healing has come slowly, in layers, through mystical Persian poetry, music, and movement in community. Through my own journey and working with other refugees and frontline workers, I’ve learned that joy isn’t the absence of pain. It’s finding what’s right amid so much wrong. It’s both an act of resistance and the fuel that keeps resilience alive. Creating spaces for others to reconnect with joy, especially in the midst of hardship, has been both my way of giving to others what was denied to me as a child and my own medicine. Each time I see someone’s face light up during a speech or in a workshop, a small part of my own story is rewritten, reminding me that healing is never solitary. It’s always shared.
Alright, so if you are open to it, let’s explore some philosophical questions that touch on your values and worldview. What would your closest friends say really matters to you?
When I asked a few close friends what really matters to me, they said: social justice, caring for oneself so we can care for others, deep relationships, and the importance of being in nature, creativity, joy, and magic.
I also had the chance to explore these themes in a conversation with my wonderful publisher and editor, Laura Stanfill, which appears in her new book “Imagine a Door: A Writer’s Guide to Unlocking Your Story, Choosing a Publishing Path, and Honoring the Creative Journey:”
“ARI HONARVAR, AN IMMIGRATION ACTIVIST and the author of A Girl Called Rumi, actively engages with success metrics by resisting them. She told me she doesn’t judge her creative work by the number of copies sold. ‘Receiving all the praise and notes from readers is absolutely beautiful and life-art-affirming,’ she told me. ‘People’s response to my work with refugees and individuals is also incredible. But it occurs to me that I don’t measure myself with the accolades, admiration, and reader response either. My self-worth corresponds to whether I’m doing right by my relationships, with myself, others, nature, and the unknown-am I a worthy lover of life? I’m the only one who can answer this and if I’m not holding back love and effort as I proceed in life, the answer is a resounding yes.’ Are you a worthy lover of life? Ari asks.”
Okay, so before we go, let’s tackle one more area. Are you tap dancing to work? Have you been that level of excited at any point in your career? If so, please tell us about those days.
Well, maybe not tap dancing, but more often than not, I do get to dance at work:) Whether I’m giving a speech or leading a workshop, I see it as a collaborative activity. We loosen up, tap into our inner goofball, and do a little movement together. I’ve also been fortunate enough to facilitate thousands of dance sessions with refugees from all over the world, learn new dance moves from them, bask in the music that reminds them of home, and create a space of belonging and solidarity together.
Even when I’m writing or making art, I balance it with movement. I can’t sit for long, so I let my body move in ways that feel good.
Over the years, the metaphor of dance has become a Serenity Prayer, a zikr of sorts for me. It beckons me to pivot and flow with what I cannot control. It reminds me to bring all of me to which I must change, not leaving anything small or trivial behind. And it points me to the stillness from which music arises.
Contact Info:
- Website: https://rumiwithaview.com
- Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/rumiwithaview/
- Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/ari-honarvar-9a108814a/
- Youtube: @rumiwithaview
- Soundcloud: https://soundcloud.com/ari-honarvar
- Other: Threads:
@rumiwithaview
