Chapter 1 — Dreams and Goals

When I was going through the period of depression and anxiety, my sister once told me “When you find Interaction, Confidence, and Trust — you will heal.”

At that time, those words felt distant and almost unreachable. I did not understand what those three letters meant, nor how I could possibly reach them. Yet somewhere deep inside, I knew I had to walk through that darkness in my own way. Healing, I felt, had to come from a place that was truly mine.

I have always been the youngest child in my family, yet strangely the most stubborn. I follow my own rhythm. I only walk a path if my heart agrees to walk it. Looking back now, I see that this spirit came from my mother — a woman who placed her family above herself, who sacrificed quietly, yet always knew exactly what she wanted and what she was capable of. From her I inherited both strength and sensitivity: the discipline to plan, and the tenderness to feel.

Since I was a little girl, I have lived by dreams and goals. I divided life into stages, always setting short-term and long-term destinations for myself. That instinct later shaped my professional life — planning, forecasting, analyzing numbers. Yet numbers alone never defined me. My mother’s gentle awareness of people also flowed into my blood. Alongside my analytical career, I found my way into work that touches human lives directly — caring for employee welfare, listening to unspoken worries, understanding hopes and silent fears. Over thirty-five years of working and living, life quietly trained me in the skills of understanding — understanding myself, and understanding others. Communication became not just a tool, but a bridge. Helping others when they needed a voice or a hand slowly revealed itself as my purpose.

One of my earliest memories still makes me smile. I was five years old when I was chosen to represent Southern Vietnam at my school fair. My mother carefully sewed me a traditional outfit — white ‘’áo bà ba’’, black trousers, and a checkered scarf. I was born with three hair whorls, which my mother jokingly said meant I would grow up stubborn. Perhaps she was right. The scarf that was meant to wrap my head could barely fit; it ended up around my neck instead. Yet none of that mattered to me. I felt deeply proud to stand there as one of the chosen children representing the three regions of the country at that fair. I wore that outfit long after the fair was over, ignoring laughter, holding onto that small victory. It was the first time I recognized a truth about myself: once my heart chooses something, I will carry it with pride.

At seven, I spent a summer learning embroidery. By the end of three months, my stitches were good enough that a workshop offered me paid work. My tiny hands embroidered slippers that would travel all the way to Russia. When I brought my first earnings home, my mother let me keep the money for small joys. That moment planted a seed inside me — the belief that dreams grow when nurtured early. From then on, I wrote journals, joined school publications, entered competitions simply for the thrill of standing in front of people. I loved the energy of crowds; the bigger the audience, the more alive I felt.

As I grew older, my dreams evolved. I learned when to play and when to focus. I learned to shift goals without losing direction. University led me into economics — a field I never imagined choosing — yet life has a wisdom that often sees further than our plans. What once felt like a detour revealed itself as alignment. I began to understand that adaptability is also a gift. Flexibility is not weakness; it is survival shaped into strength.

Today, I see that every adjustment I made, every dream I reshaped, prepared me for the illness I would one day face — and survive. Adaptability carried me across that storm. And now, standing on the other side, I believe more than ever that life hides miracles behind every difficult passage. Good things wait patiently for those who continue walking with confidence in themselves and trust in something greater.

As I write these words, my doctor tells me I have recovered ninety percent. I have quietly grown into Four: Interaction, Confidence, Trust, and Transformation. They are no longer abstract ideas. They are my compass as I step into what I call my golden years — not a time of decline, but a season of serenity. A time to live gently, truthfully, and gratefully. A time to return to myself.