The executive who broke free from corporate America’s golden handcuffs to build power for Muslim women

Nausheena Hussain’s life began in transit. 

Her mother was pregnant when she immigrated to the United States, and Nausheena was born three months later in Chicago. 

Her childhood was defined by a tight-knit immigrant community in the suburb of Elgin, where the homes of aunts and uncles became extensions of her own.

“Your family really becomes the philanthropic tool to help people integrate into society,” she reflects.

The local masjid, which her family helped build, was a foundational pillar of her community. In high school, she was one of only six Muslims among 500 students in a predominantly white, Christian environment.

While she didn’t face direct Islamophobia, she did experience otherness and exclusion as a young Muslim girl. Still, she found joy in cross-cultural activities where she could share her Muslim and Indian heritage.

The expectation from her parents was clear: medicine. 

As a good student, she was pushed toward the most stable and prestigious career they could imagine. 

She started at community college, leading the Muslim Student Association, then transferred to Benedictine University as a pre-med student. At the Catholic school, ironically, she found a thriving Muslim student community where hijab was part of everyday campus life.

But her parents also had another, more traditional, expectation. 

“The most important thing for a girl is to get married,” she says. 

In her junior year, they presented her with a proposal. She felt a mix of shock and confusion. Her academic ambitions seemed to be taking a backseat. She had just taken the MCAT and didn’t do as well as she had hoped. 

She felt torn.

“Why should I become a doctor? I just married one,” she recalls, with a laugh.

That flash of frustration was also a moment of clarity. The dream of medicine wasn't really hers. It was her parents’.

* * * 

After marrying and graduating, Nausheena’s husband matched for his residency at Hennepin County Medical Center, and the couple moved to Minnesota. 

She pivoted, enrolling in the MBA program at the University of Minnesota, focusing on marketing. 

She landed a job at United Health Group and then moved to Best Buy, where she spent seven years.

The environment at Best Buy was a revelation. It was youthful, energetic, and valued diverse perspectives. 

“Everybody is expected to voice their opinions, speak up, share their ideas,” she says. 

She thrived at the company, helping to establish an interfaith employee business network that eventually grew into a dedicated Muslim employee group.

She learned to advocate for herself, refusing to shake hands with male colleagues and finding allies who would protect her boundaries. 

Once, after the marketing team placed “Happy Eid al-Adha” in a holiday sales paper, the company was hit with a wave of anti-Muslim hate. 

But her leadership team never backed down. 

“They were so good,” she remembers. “I never felt like my Islam or my Muslim-ness affected my career trajectory.”

But a spiritual restlessness began to grow. 

It was 2008. The economy was collapsing, the Arab Spring was igniting, and the Muslim community in America was under intense scrutiny. 

She was sitting in an aqeedah class at her local masjid when she had an epiphany.

“I was like, this is not what Allah wants from me,” she says. “And so I made dua. I was like, ‘You know, Allah, give me a way out.’”

* * * 

The way out came in the form of an email. 

CAIR-Minnesota was hiring a chapter coordinator. It meant sacrificing her corporate salary, her 401(k), and her stock purchase plan. 

She took the leap. 

“I’m doing this for the community and for the Ummah and for myself,” she decided.

The transition was jarring. 

“I used to be a cog in the machine, and now I'm the entire machine,” she says. 

But she brought her corporate toolkit with her, applying her skills in marketing, operations, and fundraising to build the organization’s infrastructure. The work was meaningful. They were changing policies and fighting for the rights of their community.

But she began to notice a troubling pattern. 

Muslim women were often the most affected by discrimination, yet they were consistently absent from leadership tables. At press conferences, the imams would speak. The women, if they were present at all, were silent. 

“I was like, this is problematic,” she says. “We're feeding into the negative narratives.”

She decided to build a new table. 

In 2016, a year of intense political energy, she founded Reviving the Islamic Sisterhood for Empowerment, or RISE.

She had learned how to caucus and became a delegate to the Democratic convention. She had built relationships with political leaders. 

Now, she wanted to empower other Muslim women to do the same. But she was about to face a challenge from expected source.

* * * 

“We knew Muslim men were going to be problematic,” Nausheena says. 

But she was determined. Instead of using the language of feminism or misogyny, she focused on a positive, asset-based messages of empowerment. 

The mission of RISE was simple: to amplify the stories and build the power of Muslim women.

They launched “Muslim Sheroes of Minnesota” to counter the one-dimensional, negative stereotypes of Muslim women as either victims or villains. 

The impact was profound. 

Young girls would come up to them and say, “I didn’t know I could be a scientist. I didn’t know I could run my own business.”

She built broad coalitions, partnering with organizations on public policy and with media partners to get their stories out. 

But her most radical act of leadership was planning her own exit from the very beginning. 

In a community where founders often lead for decades, she was determined to normalize transitions.

“I passed the baton to Malika Dahir,” she says, “and I wasn't going to sit on the board. I wasn't going to lurk in the background... This is yours now, I'm done.”

* * * 

That intentional transition allowed her to discover her own superpower: building the foundational infrastructure for emerging organizations. 

Today, she works as an executive coach for Muslim women leaders and consults with nonprofits on operations, strategy, and organizational development—building women up so they can build nonprofits that transform communities.

Her work is now backed by deep academic research. 

She is pursuing a doctorate in philanthropic leadership, studying the history and practice of Muslim women's philanthropy, and recently authored "Prosperity with Purpose: A Muslim Woman's Guide to Abundance and Generosity.""

She has discovered a rich tradition of Muslim women who, since the earliest days of Islam, used their wealth and agency to build civil society, funding schools, hospitals, and orphanages.

“That agency needs to be reclaimed again,” she says.

Her advice to Muslim professionals is a distillation of her own winding, purposeful journey. 

It is about taking the time to reflect, to set intentions, and to understand what brings you joy. It is about building broad relationships, both within and outside the community. But most importantly, it is about embracing the uncertainty of the path.

“There is no cookie-cutter way of doing things,” she says. “Something's gonna happen. Something's gonna disrupt it. Be very open and flexible.”

“Do your diligence, do your actions, tie your camel, do the work,” she advises. “Make dua, but leave the rest of the outcomes to Allah. You can only control what you can control.”