Remembering My Last Decade pt.2

When I think back on my time in America, it feels less like a straight line and more like a quiet unfolding—a path that wandered, paused, and turned, not always with direction, but always with meaning. I didn’t arrive with a perfect plan. I arrived with hope, curiosity, and a quiet hunger to discover what the world—and I—could become.

My first landing place was Dallas, Texas. I enrolled in a community college to study English for a semester, trying to find footing in a place that felt vast and unfamiliar. The days were simple and unsure. Every conversation was a small step toward understanding; every mistake, a lesson folded into my memory. I moved downtown soon after, chasing an idea of studying nursing. It seemed like a noble and stable choice, something I could be proud of. But over time, I began to feel a soft dissonance between the path I had chosen and the quiet voice inside me that was still searching.

I didn’t leave nursing because I failed at it—I left because it wasn’t mine to keep. My younger self thought that ambition meant rising fast, reaching high, and holding titles that made others nod in approval. But that idea began to unravel gently, not in disappointment, but in clarity. I realized I wanted more than just to succeed; I wanted to belong to something that made me feel deeply alive.

That realization came more clearly when I transferred to a university in Minnesota. The pace slowed. The cold crept in. And I, too, began to quiet down and listen—to my surroundings, to the people around me, and to myself. For the first time, I encountered the world of academia not as a distant concept, but as a living rhythm: long nights of study, intense conversations over coffee, and people who lived for the joy of asking difficult questions.

Up until then, I had imagined a PhD as just another accolade—a way to dress up one’s resume. But being there, amid those who were immersed in their research not for prestige, but for purpose, shifted something inside me. I saw how much patience, sacrifice, and inward strength it required. And with that understanding came a pause: was I ready for something that demanded not only intellect but deep love and resilience? I didn’t know yet. But I was grateful for the space to ask.

One of the things I cherished most during my time in the U.S. was the library system—an unexpected sanctuary. It may sound small, but it wasn’t. Those libraries were like sacred ground for the curious. They were warm when the snow fell hard, quiet when the mind was loud, and filled with endless rows of answers, waiting patiently. Through interlibrary loans, I could reach across states and countries, borrowing books and articles from worlds I hadn’t even imagined. Some nights, I wandered the aisles just to feel the weight of so many thoughts gathered in one place.

Libraries in America are more than buildings—they are living organisms of knowledge, generosity, and trust. Even outside the university, public libraries were community homes. I saw children curled up in reading corners, elders attending free classes, immigrants finding language resources, artists printing work, and students like me, seeking both information and belonging. I often wondered, with a soft ache in my chest, what it would be like to see something similar bloom in Vietnam. Not just a room with books, but a space that breathes—where knowledge is not a privilege, but a right. I believe it can happen. I hope, someday, it will.

Of course, my time in America wasn’t always luminous. There were dark weeks when my mental health quietly unraveled. The weight of expectations—spoken and unspoken—pressed down harder than I could carry. I missed home in ways I didn’t know how to express. Eventually, I made the decision to step back. I returned to Vietnam not with regret, but with reverence for what the journey had given me.

Coming home was not a conclusion, but a new beginning—a chance to pause, to recharge, and to reconnect with myself. It was a vital moment of calm, a space to embrace stillness and reflect deeply. This time allowed me to gather all that I had experienced—lessons learned, memories made, uncertainties faced, and moments of joy—and to start building a solid foundation for the future.

I am still on this journey—continually learning, growing, and discovering. While I don’t have all the answers yet, I have gained clarity about who I am and what matters most to me. My time abroad didn’t solve everything, but it opened the door to meaningful questions, and for now, that is more than enough to keep moving forward with hope and purpose.