My mom did the impossible. She fled Vietnam while pregnant with me and separated from my dad in the chaos. She was so strong-willed that without speaking any English, she brought all of her children to America safely, located my dad five years later, and was a master lie detector who kept her 14 kids in line.
She dreamed of a better life for me. Instead of following her plan, I rebelled against the one person I wanted to impress.
For my entire young adulthood, we couldn’t see eye to eye. My Vietnamese wasn’t good enough to keep up with her lectures, but her disapproval was clear. She saw me as the problem child: rebellious just to be rebellious, irresponsible, and a risk-taker with no regard for the family’s name. In my home, there was no room for self-discovery or making mistakes — but I was creative. I found ways to do both.
My mom thought my mistakes were many: I didn’t live at home long enough. I moved out at age 17. I didn’t get a job after college. I couch surfed for months not knowing what to do with a neuroscience degree. I didn’t go to medical school. I spent years going broke to pursue a Ph.D.
I didn’t marry a Vietnamese Buddhist. I married interracial and interreligious. I didn’t honor traditional gender roles. I focused on building my career before raising a family. I didn’t stick to one job. I took risks and didn’t always have a plan.
