Member since January 2026
Dr. Lia A. Roth is a psychoanalyst, keynote speaker and bestselling author with more than ten books to her name. She turned decades of work on shame and betrayal into a clear, powerful way of understanding how we love, lead, and belong. Her voice brings sharp insight without the drama, and her tools stay with us long after we hear them. She’s known for being passionate in a way that feels steady, honest, and human — turning hard truths into clarity that makes a room feel awake, strong, and capable.
Bringing possibility to people, because knowledge and intelligence are the foundation of good decisions. Creating a ripple of positive change by leading our own life as an ethical choice.
I was 11 years old. My father owned a beautiful sailing ketch, and we had taken it all the way to Brazil. Some days dolphins swam alongside us. Other days there was no wind at all, and we’d float, swimming in open water, suspended between sky and sea.
One night, near Santa Catarina Bay, a violent storm hit without warning. The wind tore the sails apart. I remember my mother sewing them back together as fast as she could, to find them ripped apart by the wind again. At one point, my father told us to prepare the dinghy. That call only comes when the worst is near. We all held our breath. My mother engaged in prayer.
As fast as the wind came, it also left.
The storm was gone, and we were lost. No GPS. No communication. Just darkness, stars, and silence.
That night taught me something: our body, our universe, is ingeniously crafted. We already carry the resources we need. Survival and success aren’t about control. They’re about perception. About knowing how to orient yourself when the map disappears. Trust yourself beyond knowledge. Trust the internal wisdom that carries you forward, because something in you already knows the way.
Born in Argentina and now based in St. Louis, I first came to the U.S. to assist at the 9/11 Service Center #1. When the world broke open, I felt pulled to be there, to stand with the people living through it and help make the world feel safe again. Three years later, I returned as a graduate student at Washington University in St. Louis. That’s when I met my husband.
Soon after getting married, I was diagnosed with skin cancer. Fifty stitches ran down the center of my face. It shook me for a year, but it also opened a door. I began meeting people who had been carrying their pain in silence, and that’s what took me back to school.
I was 11 years old. My father owned a beautiful sailing ketch, and we had taken it all the way to Brazil. Some days dolphins swam alongside us. Other days there was no wind at all, and we’d float, swimming in open water, suspended between sky and sea.
One night, near Santa Catarina Bay, a violent storm hit without warning. The wind tore the sails apart. I remember my mother sewing them back together as fast as she could, to find them ripped apart by the wind again. At one point, my father told us to prepare the dinghy. That call only comes when the worst is near. We all held our breath. My mother engaged in prayer.
As fast as the wind came, it also left.
The storm was gone, and we were lost. No GPS. No communication. Just darkness, stars, and silence.
That night taught me something: our body, our universe, is ingeniously crafted. We already carry the resources we need. Survival and success aren’t about control. They’re about perception. About knowing how to orient yourself when the map disappears. Trust yourself beyond knowledge. Trust the internal wisdom that carries you forward, because something in you already knows the way.
Born in Argentina and now based in St. Louis, I first came to the U.S. to assist at the 9/11 Service Center #1. When the world broke open, I felt pulled to be there, to stand with the people living through it and help make the world feel safe again. Three years later, I returned as a graduate student at Washington University in St. Louis. That’s when I met my husband.
Soon after getting married, I was diagnosed with skin cancer. Fifty stitches ran down the center of my face. It shook me for a year, but it also opened a door. I began meeting people who had been carrying their pain in silence, and that’s what took me back to school.