Chapter 3 — Get up from the Darkness and Transformation

When people learned that I was writing a blog to share my healing journey, a close university friend said to me, “You are very brave, but I am not. I am afraid of pain, so I only look forward and search for good things, because bad things frighten me…”

I understood why he said that, because I had witnessed him go through a terrible turning point at the height of his career. That wound made him hesitate, unable to look back at the past, choosing instead to move forward only toward what was good and bright.

I, however, am different. I do not avoid the past. I have always seen it as a point of reference, something that reminds me to live better in the present and in the future. I still keep the habit of asking myself difficult questions: Do I regret anything I have done? Do I still have enough time to fulfill the things I hope to do in the future? This habit helps me adjust my desires and goals according to my present circumstances and abilities.

Perhaps, at this point, you may think that such a habit would make my life steady and smooth. But the truth is the opposite: my life has always had its rises and falls. Looking back, most of my lowest points came from my own excessive confidence and strength—qualities that pushed me until I collapsed. And yet, it was also faith and inner strength that helped me rise again, heal, and transform into a new person—at least into the person I am today.

Most of us, at some point in life, ask ourselves: When is the happiest and most successful time of our lives? For me, happiness and success are things each person must define for themselves; they are deeply personal feelings. No one understands us better than we understand ourselves—from our flaws to our strengths, from our weaknesses to our gifts. All of these shape who we become throughout the journey of living and working.

From my own life experience, I have come to realize this: when I am able to manage my life—my time, my finances, my work, my relationships—and still have time for the things I love, I call that success. And when I am still able to contribute and be of use to someone else, I feel happiness.

So then, when I was living through my lowest notes, was I still happy? That question stayed with me for a long time. And the answer, eventually, was yes—when I had overcome the darkness and changed the way I lived, and the way I chose to contribute to this life.

Sharing my journey of overcoming what many call the illness of this century—anxiety disorder and depression—brings me happiness every day. Happiness because I have the chance to look back on my healing journey and feel proud that I recovered so strongly in such a short time—something that, according to my doctor, not everyone is able to do. Happiness because I can write and share. Happiness because I received new strength from the unconditional love of my family, friends, colleagues, and the people I had connected with in life. And happiness because I was not forgotten after five months of sinking into darkness and nearly cutting myself off completely from the outside world, except for my family.

I asked myself: after all those low notes, was I successful? The answer is yes. Successful because I rose from the darkness and became a new version of myself—better, and more suited to my present health, abilities, and circumstances.

A younger friend once asked me, “If someone is not as strong as you, can they still get out of this illness?” I answered without hesitation: yes. Because I believe that everyone has inner strength within them; the question is only whether they are willing to use it. Doctors, medicine, and treatment methods are necessary conditions, but inner strength is the sufficient condition that helps a person truly overcome.

When people learned that I had depression and anxiety disorder, they often asked me whether there had been warning signs—something they could recognize and perhaps avoid. Looking back, I realize that there were. If only I had slowed down enough to recognize them and make adjustments, perhaps things would have been different:

• I began taking much longer to do simple tasks—a sign that my ability to concentrate was declining.

• I stayed trapped in thoughts about one issue for too long without finding an answer, which affected my sleep—I slept less, slept lightly, woke up often, and worried even about things that had not yet happened.

• I gradually lost interest in my habits and hobbies: Tai Chi, swimming, listening to music, reading, and more.

• I limited social interaction, avoided crowded places, and stayed away from noise.

• I tended to isolate myself and did not want to talk or reply to messages, even from loved ones.

• I felt safe only when I was alone and gradually lost interest in the work I once loved.

• I became easily irritated and stubborn, the opposite of the calmness I used to have.

• I shifted from being proactive to passive in both thought and action.

• I struggled to make decisions—even small things like choosing clothes became difficult.

These signs lasted for three months and grew more intense, eventually leading to complete insomnia. My blood pressure rose from a stable 110 to 140, and at one point even reached 160. When I realized that everything was slipping beyond my control, I decided to seek help from a psychologist. After listening to me, my doctor said: “You have one life to live, so take care of your health and embrace the golden age coming your way.” Those words were a powerful wake-up call. The golden age, as he described it, was approaching, and I needed to be healthy to embrace it. As I understood it, the golden age is the time when a person enters their sixties with more life experience, more peace, and a deeper understanding of themselves—the ripest and most valuable stage after decades of studying, working, and caring for family. That is why it is compared to gold: precious and enduring.

And yet, I still did not stop. I continued in my toxic job, believing that I could overcome this, just as I had overcome difficult times before. I had forgotten that my age no longer allowed me to take the same risks I could have taken fifteen years earlier.

Lesson #1: Health—including our age and stage of life—must be considered before making any major decision in life.

Even after the warning, I kept working. And then my body collapsed. I lost the connection between Body, Mind, and Spirit. The peak of it came when my vision suddenly deteriorated overnight—everything became blurred. Only then did I decide to leave everything unfinished behind and return to Saigon for treatment, with the support of my family.

On the flight back to Saigon, I could no longer see my seat number clearly and had to ask a flight attendant for help. While eating, I dropped my food because I could no longer control my own movements. I panicked when I realized that I was losing connection with my body—my breathing became rushed, I broke into a sweat, and everything around me began to fade. And yet, I kept trying to stay awake and reconnect my Body, Mind, and Spirit until the plane landed at Tan Son Nhat Airport and I was reunited with my family.

That day was the 50th anniversary of the full liberation of Vietnam—and it was also the day of the darkest note of my life.

Lesson #2: Always listen to your body. Keep the connection between Body, Mind, and Spirit so that you may remain balanced.

I am truly fortunate to have had a strong family foundation, one that helped me through every rise and fall in life. My family has always been the launching ground for my dreams and aspirations, even for the impossible and unrealistic ones that life sometimes places beyond our reach. My family gave me strength in every challenge. They were my compass, always guiding me back to shelter after every stumble and wound, helping me find myself again in the embrace of unconditional love. I am grateful to God for allowing me to be born into such a loving family, because once again, it was through that love that I was able to find myself and survive a devastating illness.

My family helped me find the right place for treatment—Hyppo Clinic. The team of young, experienced, and deeply dedicated doctors, especially Dr. Khanh Tran and Dr. Tam, together with the technicians at Hyppo TMS Center, became companions on my healing journey. On May 2, when I officially began treatment, after carefully evaluating my condition, Dr. Khanh Tran told my family and me that this would be a journey of at least eight months. At that time, she could not promise any fixed milestone for my recovery from the three illnesses I was facing—depression, anxiety disorder, and psychosis. Everything would depend on how my body responded to medication and magnetic stimulation therapy, and even more importantly, on my willingness to cooperate with the treatment process.

The first three months were the harshest. I reacted strongly to the medication, lost control of my behavior, and could not take care of myself. Even the simplest daily routines—bathing, brushing my teeth—became unfamiliar to me. I no longer knew how to keep myself clean, how to choose clothes to go outside, or even how to cook. I depended entirely on my family, to the point that my sister once cried out, “You are 57 years old, not 5 or 7!”

The most critical time was during the first two months, when I even experienced temporary memory loss. I forgot things that connected my life together: passwords for my iPad, email, bank accounts, and apps I used every day. But somehow, by God’s grace, I still remembered the passcode to my phone. At that time, I was truly grateful for the advancement of technology. Just by remembering the code to my phone, I was still able to access everything I needed to manage my personal life—my bank accounts, my email, and my apps—through Face ID and the digital systems connected to my phone.

Lesson #3: Things that seem small sometimes become the very things that help hold our lives together.

That is why now I have reorganized and simplified every important connection in my daily life as much as possible, so that I will not panic if I ever find myself in a similar situation again.

Besides temporary memory loss during the first two months of illness, I also struggled to express myself in words. I could understand and recognize everything around me, but I could not respond. It was as if everything was stuck inside me. I felt trapped, unable to find a way out. I did not know where to begin except by enduring each prescribed dose of medication, hoping that one day my body would finally accept one of them, and that through that acceptance I would reconnect Body, Mind, and Spirit as I wished. Some medicines caused immediate reactions. Others seemed suitable at first, only for my body to reject them strongly after a week.

My family’s entire routine was overturned. Everyone set aside their own schedules to care for me around the clock, just as they had promised my doctor, so that I would not have to be hospitalized. Without my family’s support, there would certainly be no “me” sitting here today, writing and sharing this healing journey. And perhaps because I saw how exhausted everyone had become while caring for me, step by step, I began to open my heart, reconnect, and slowly emerge from the darkness.

When my body finally began responding to treatment, I gradually regained that inner connection. I started returning to the world through three words: Trust – Interaction – Confidence.

It began with choosing one trusted friend among my eleven closest friends. I trusted that friend enough to step out of the safety of my family circle. Through that interaction, I found the confidence to accept that I was ill—and that I could recover—by allowing love and help to come from people beyond my family.

Perhaps my greatest obstacle was overcoming myself: accepting help from others without feeling ashamed or diminished. Before I became ill, I had always been the one others leaned on. So when I fell sick, the feeling of depending on others to stand up again, to step out of the darkness, became the very thing that prevented me from reconnecting with people. My pride was too large.

But I learned to accept that I was ill, to allow others to help me, and to let go of my ego. I realized that when I refused other people’s help, I was also hurting them. They suffered too, because they felt helpless, unable to find a way to support me, forced to watch me in pain.

When I began reconnecting with one close friend, and then with others, I slowly released my shame, accepted my illness, and shared my journey with those I met. Little by little, something in me shifted—from resentment to acceptance, from closing off to opening up. And with that change came new choices, new decisions, and a new path for the second half of my life.

Lesson #4: Seek help. Connection with the community helps shorten the healing journey and opens new paths ahead.

I am grateful to my family, my friends, and everyone who stayed beside me—in the high notes full of joy, and in the deep low notes I once believed I could never survive. Because of them, I have become stronger, more peaceful, and more able to cherish every moment of life, whether bright or dark.

I am grateful—for having walked through darkness and learned what light truly means.

Grateful—for still having the chance to live, to love, and to contribute.

And for the journey ahead, I carry only one simple wish: to live usefully, and to give back more to the community.