I still remember the heat of that Saigon afternoon—the kind that settles on your shoulders like a warm reminder that you’re home. I had returned to my old college in Vietnam to present at a student team building event, and despite years of professional experience, my hands shook the way they used to when I was a freshman trying to find my voice. It felt like stepping back into a version of myself I thought I had long outgrown.

As I sat in the familiar courtyard preparing my notes, the scent of iced coffee and the chatter of students drifted around me. Everything looked smaller than I remembered: the worn staircase, the crowded bulletin boards, the echoing hallways. I realized that this was my “last straw of home”—a final, quiet moment where I wasn’t a specialist, or an advisor, or a bilingual communicator. I was simply a former student, called back to where my story began.

When I walked into the classroom, a group of students rushed to greet me, eyes bright with the same curiosity I once had. One student asked, “How did you know what path to choose?” The truth was, I didn’t. I told them that clarity never arrives all at once—it shows up in fragments: a class that excites you, a mentor who challenges you, a project that makes you lose track of time. For me, it showed up the first time I wrote a training script, the first time I translated a message and felt it land, the first time a story helped someone understand something important.

As I spoke, the nerves melted away. I found myself sharing not just advice, but the journey—the uncertainty, the choices, the moments of courage that pushed me forward. By the end, the room felt warm with connection, the way only shared stories can create.

If I were to begin a memoir, I would start with that day: standing in front of students who reminded me of my younger self, rediscovering the roots of my own voice. Because sometimes, returning home isn’t about where you’ve been—it’s about recognizing how far you’ve come.