When I worked at JPMorgan Chase more than a decade ago, I had a co-worker who was a total powerhouse. She was bright and ambitious. She was a survivor—her family fled persecution at the hands of a dictator in Africa and came to America as refugees. She was smart and confident, a former college athlete, and she embraced her Indian heritage. I hadn’t met anyone like her, and I admired her.

One day, I stopped in the restroom as I was running between meetings, and I quickly realized I wasn’t alone. I could hear sobbing from behind one of the stalls, and, although my first instinct was to give her some privacy, something made me stay and knock on the door. When it opened, I hardly recognized the person sitting in the stall.