The Strength of Lightness 

by Caterina Malacrida

Parastoo, let’s start from the beginning.

I was born and raised in Tehran, the capital of Iran. I had a happy childhood, surrounded by my family and friends. When I was seventeen, together with my twenty-year-old brother, we founded our first company, a molding business. We were young and inexperienced, but full of enthusiasm. At first it was just the two of us, then we involved trusted friends who helped and taught us the trade. We learned everything by doing — through mistakes and with the courage of those who are not afraid. At the time there was little competition; we were among the few and the company was immediately successful. Out of necessity, I later decided to study accounting at university, not because it was my passion, but because the company needed it.

When did you feel the need to leave?

It all started with my mother. At sixty, she decided to move to Denmark with her husband. My brother and I stayed in Iran to run the business, but her absence weighed heavily on me. I often visited her in Denmark: everything was perfect there, but too quiet, too still. My mother wanted me to move there, but I didn’t feel ready — in Iran I had my company, my life, my family. Yet inside me grew the desire to experience life abroad, to discover who I was outside my own world. I began studying French, then I met a girl who told me about an Italian language school in Tehran. There were two options: take a few months of classes and obtain a student visa for Italy, or — for the brave — take the university entrance exam directly. I chose the second path. I took private lessons, studied every day, and after two months — incredibly — I passed the exam. One month later, I had my visa in hand.

And so you left.

Yes, it was 2012. I was twenty-nine. I arrived in Milan, even though I was originally supposed to go to Rome. The night before leaving I dreamed that all the doors of the city were closing in front of me, that all the streets were slipping away beneath my feet. I woke up shaken — I felt it wasn’t my place. The next day I called the Italian embassy to change my destination city. They told me it was impossible. But when I gave my name, by an incredible coincidence they were just working on my file, and so I managed to change it. That dream, and that coincidence, brought me to Milan. Even today, I believe nothing happens by chance.

Do you remember your first period in Italy?

Very well. It was 2012, I was twenty-nine. I was completely disoriented. I arrived in Milan with an Iranian professor and his son, who stayed with me for the first month. I enrolled at university but I understood almost nothing. I didn’t know anyone, I didn’t understand the language, I felt lost. I remember days when I walked alone through the streets and cried. But at the same time I knew that if you truly want to change, you must go through those difficult moments. Many times I thought of going back, to my mother or my brother. But then I told myself: if you want to change, you must go through the storm. Slowly I began to understand, to make friends, to feel part of a new world. I met an Iranian friend, and with her I began to enjoy myself and feel lighter.

What was the hardest step?

Accepting solitude. Iran is a noisy country, full of life, family, friends, long tables filled with food. Here I learned silence. But it was in that silence that I truly discovered who I was.

And then what happened?

After that first year in Milan, I decided to stay longer, but I wanted to work, not just study. I began promoting my company in Italy, and that is how I met Gio, who later became my husband. It was a difficult time for him: the family company, Mussi Divani, was going through a complex generational transition. But when I saw his work, I thought it would be a shame to abandon such a beautiful story. Our life experiences brought us very close; we talked a lot, supported each other, and after a few months we fell in love. Through him I discovered Brianza, the value of craftsmanship, and the passion for detail.

What did you feel the first time you entered the Mussi Divani workshop?

I was enchanted. I thought Italy would be more technological. I came from a country where technology is widespread, where everything is automated, but here I discovered that beauty is born from the hands, from the gesture. I learned that the simpler things are, the truer they become, and that beauty lies in the time you devote to things. Gio says that when you work with your hands, you put your heart into it. In those gestures there was history, ancient knowledge, a way of doing things that deserved to be told and preserved. That’s when I felt the desire to become part of it, to protect it and help it be reborn.

Gio becomes the owner of Mussi Divani. What did you bring to the company?

A new perspective. Mussi Divani is a historic brand, known for its craftsmanship and strong materials. But it lacked a story. I believe every sofa, every armchair, every detail should tell something: the hand that stitched it, the family that chooses it, the time spent on it. I started working on storytelling, visual identity, and brand language. I wanted every image and every word to convey who we are: a family business built on authenticity and respect. We renewed the website, the catalog, the communication. But above all, we changed the approach: today, when someone enters the company, they don’t just buy a product — they enter a story. We welcome every guest as if they were at home. We offer Persian tea, we tell the story of the company and the meaning of the butterfly, dedicated to my mother Parvaneh, a symbol of beauty and lightness. For us every meeting is a celebration. This is what I bring: care for relationships, gratitude, and the value of shared time.

Do you have a dream you haven’t fulfilled yet?

Yes. I would love to create a place where people can live the essence of Mussi — a home-showroom next to the company, with a kitchen, a big table, spaces to cook, listen to music, and talk. I want to welcome clients as guests, share a glass of wine, a story, an emotion. And I dream of creating a wine with my name on it — not out of vanity, but to hold my story in a sip: the taste of Iran, the sweetness of the lake, the strength of the journey.

Do you ever think of going back to Iran?

No, not to live there. I love Iran, its people, its vitality, but here I have found my dimension. In Iran life is always full — you run, you celebrate, you never stop. In Como I discovered peace, slow time, the pleasure of simplicity. My life is here, with Gio and Nicolò.

What advice would you give to a young person today?

Don’t be afraid. Leave your country, your comfort zone. Travel, explore, make mistakes, learn. Every difficulty shapes us and makes us stronger. I wish my son and all young people to live every day with gratitude, even the small things — a coffee, a walk, a meeting — because these simple moments are what give meaning to life.