I’m Chandni. I’ve built my career solving complex problems: from engineering the chips behind the smartphones in your hands to making the business case for a more sustainable planet. I’ve analyzed how markets move, how policies shape outcomes, and how infrastructure drives change.

But the most complex system I’ve encountered wasn’t in a boardroom or a policy memo. It was the daily, invisible architecture of motherhood: the constant mental switching between long-term planning and in-the-moment care, the quiet emotional tracking of everyone’s needs, the cultural expectation to make it all look effortless.

Motherhood cracked me open in ways I didn’t expect. It brought deep joy, a sharper sense of purpose and, quietly, a profound loneliness I hadn’t known how to name. Contrary to popular opinion, motherhood didn’t unravel my ambition; it deepened it. It made me more attuned to what’s at stake: not just for our children, but for the women raising them. The more I looked, the clearer it became: when mothers are left to carry the load alone, it limits not only their well-being, but their capacity to advocate: for paid leave, for clean air, for care infrastructure, for a livable planet.

Mothers are stretched thin not because they are failing, but because systems meant to support us have disappeared. When mothers are drowning on an individual level, under the weight of unpaid labor and fragmented care, it becomes nearly impossible to advocate for the collective. That’s not a coincidence. It’s quiet sabotage.

Mothers are the steady flame lighting the path for generations yet to walk it. But we’ve been pushed to the margins of the very systems that depend on our care.

That’s why I started Kula: to rebuild the village and the social infrastructure modern motherhood needs. We don’t just offer space to breathe; we create the conditions for mothers to be seen, supported, and activated: not just as caregivers, but as community builders and change-makers.

Because when moms rise, everyone rises with us!