This morning in New York, the city was unusually kind – quiet corners, warm light bouncing off windows, a breeze that didn’t demand anything from me. I was sitting outside a tiny cafe in the East Village, sipping my almost-too-milky iced coffee, when I found myself deep in conversation with Professor Ron McClure (whose career and life are far more fascinating than anything you’ll find on his Wikipedia – trust me). We were people-watching, then somehow drifted into reflecting on what it means to spend years in this city.
He said,
“Life is a journey, not a destination.”
And just like that, something in me softened.
This past year has been many things – loud, tender, lonely, full. I’ve cried on subway platforms, laughed with strangers (all the aunties, uncles, yéye & nǎinai) in Chinatown, stood in the middle of SoHo traffic just to admire the way the sunset hit a red brick wall. If there’s one truth this city has gifted me, it’s this: you cannot plan your way into peace. Life will rewrite your script again and again. And when that happens, the only thing you can do is be where your feet are.
New York doesn’t wait. It doesn’t flatter. It doesn’t care if you’re ready. But somehow, in its chaos, it teaches you to hold onto the moment. To notice. To feel. To simply be.
I used to carry so many quiet expectations of who I should be, how I should live, what it means to be a good daughter, a strong woman, a successful person. We carry these ideas – social standards – like invisible weights. And we carry them well, until one day, they start carrying us.
I’m lucky, truly. One day, my parents told me gently:
“As long as it doesn’t hurt anyone, just do what makes you happy.”
It stunned me. And now, in a quiet twist of life, I find myself saying the same to them.
Because we’re all unlearning. Together.
Don’t get me wrong – I still love tradition. I still make bánh chưng every Tết. I still prepare the Tray of Five Fruits on the first and fifteenth day of each lunar month. I adore áo dài, the rituals, the softness in being a little ladylike. I find beauty in certain sacrifices. I treasure the way my grandma and mom fold sticky rice into lá dong and lá khúc with care. I love how the family gathers to make spring rolls, the quiet prayers whispered on New Year’s Eve, the deep respect passed down through generations.
But I also believe there are some things – some outdated expectations – we can lovingly let go.
Like the idea that a girl must always be soft-spoken and agreeable.
That love only looks one way.
That choosing yourself is selfish.
That softness is weakness.
That love only comes if you follow the rules.
That security comes from marrying the right person at the right time.
New York challenges all of that.
Here, I’ve seen women build empires, cry openly, fall in love with their art, walk home barefoot after parties, stand alone in museums – and still be whole.
Here, I’ve learned that life isn’t about getting it right.
It’s about learning to be real.
So what will I carry forward – and what will I gently release – in this new chapter?
I’m learning that I don’t have to choose between structure and surrender.
I still love a good plan. I still panic when there isn’t one. But maybe the goal isn’t to let go of planning – it’s to loosen the grip. To hold both: a vision for the future and room for surprise. To trust that peace can live beside preparation.
I’m slowly releasing the societal expectations I once wore like a second skin – what it means to be a “good daughter,” a “respectable woman,” a “successful adult.”
Not all of them, of course. I still cherish tradition. I still value respect, kindness, resilience. But I no longer believe I must shrink myself to fit someone else’s idea of enough.
I don’t have to be agreeable to be worthy.
I don’t have to follow timelines that aren’t mine.
I don’t have to explain the parts of me that don’t translate neatly.
I’m letting go of the urge to prove myself through things – titles, possessions, the performance of having it all together.
I’d rather invest in friendships that feel like chosen family, in spontaneous road trips, in long dinners—shared with people I love—that end with us barefoot on someone’s couch, full of food and laughter, with no need to impress. The kind of nights that remind me of home, of family gathered around a crowded table, where love is loud, time slows down, and presence is everything.
And I’m letting go of the illusion that I need to control everything to be happy.
Because happiness, I’m learning, lives in the in-between moments – the walk home, the shared glance, the deep breath before something new begins.
Letting go isn’t giving up.
It’s making space.
And when I make space – emotionally, mentally, physically – I feel abundance.
Not in things, but in presence.
That’s the greatest gift New York has given me:
To live a life that’s mine.
Not perfect. But true.
And what is peace, really,
if not learning to walk your own path
one messy, magical, unrepeatable New York step at a time?
