To the me of the years ahead

Dear Hậu,

This year, I'm starting over.

It sounds simple.

Starting over with work.

With a dream.

With a way of life.

But perhaps the hardest thing is still starting over with myself.

In 2026, I'm learning to be a father.

A lesson no school teaches, no book can fully explain. There is only a tiny child in my arms, breathing softly, sleeping soundly, while I sit looking at him for a long time and wonder:

Wait, so from today on, I'm responsible for another life?

That little boy arrived and changed everything inside me.

A cry in the middle of the night.

A tiny hand wrapped around my finger.

A smile not quite fully formed.

A pair of eyes looking at me as though I were the whole world.

And suddenly, I understand Mom and Dad.

I understand those nights long ago when I slept soundly while they may still have been awake.

I understand the times I was stubborn and defiant, hurting them in ways they perhaps had no words for.

I understand that strange kind of love parents have.

Loving without needing to be loved in return.

Giving without ever keeping count.

Only now that I'm a father do I understand: some kinds of love can only be understood by… becoming the person who once loved you that way.

This year, I'm learning another lesson too.

Learning to accept.

To accept that I have known glory.

And that I have known failure too.

Those two words sound almost funny side by side.

In glory, people call out your name.

In failure, they call you other names.

When I was on my way up, some people came very close.

When I was on my way down, their footsteps grew fainter.

Fainter.

Then faded away.

Some handshakes that once held so firmly have become nothing more than a nod from a distance.

Some people who once spoke to me with such warmth suddenly became strangers when I no longer held the position I once did.

There were looks in people's eyes I thought would never change.

It turns out they could.

That's life.

The fickleness of human hearts sounds like some worn old saying, but you have to live through a few of life's rises and falls yourself to understand how cold it can be.

And through that, I came to understand something else.

When my life falls apart, the people still standing there are the ones who truly care for me.

They don't need to say much.

They don't need to ask what I have left.

They simply reach out a hand.

Just one hand.

But enough for someone falling to know they haven't hit rock bottom.

This year, I'm learning gratitude.

Gratitude for those who stayed.

Gratitude for those who reached out.

Gratitude even for those who turned their backs.

It may sound strange.

But without those who turned away, how would I know the worth of those still beside me?

If I had never been alone, how would I know how precious it is to have someone sitting beside me?

If I had never failed, how would I know how much a simple “keep going” can mean?

Sometimes we don't need anyone to save us.

We just need to know there is still someone behind us.

That is enough.

2026 is also the year I began learning something very new.

AI.

GPT.

Things that once sounded as though they belonged to some faraway world now sit right in front of me every day.

The world moves so fast.

So fast that if I stand still, tomorrow is already here before I've even made sense of yesterday.

I'm learning.

A little at a time.

Learning how to talk to a machine.

Learning how to let it help me think.

Learning how to run Anh Ngữ Con Ơi more efficiently.

Learning so I won't be left behind in an age when everything changes by the day.

But the more I learn about AI, the more I see a very old truth:

A machine can help me work faster.

But it cannot live my life for me.

It cannot be a father for me.

It cannot be a husband for me.

It cannot love Mom and Dad for me.

It cannot take responsibility for a life in my place.

And perhaps that is still the hardest part of being human.

I'm also preparing Ngồi Cafe for a new journey.

Another beginning.

Another challenge.

More nights spent wondering what to do tomorrow, where to go, whom to meet, where to begin.

Sometimes I'm afraid too.

Afraid my health isn't what it used to be.

Afraid these shoulders no longer have the strength to share the weight of more long days with my wife.

Afraid that one day I won't have the strength to keep pursuing the things I want to do.

Afraid I won't be here long enough to see Bánh Mì grow up.

Sometimes those fears come very quietly.

Tucked away somewhere in an evening.

When everyone else is asleep.

I sit alone and listen to the steady breathing of my wife and child.

Outside, the city is still bright.

But in this little room, I suddenly feel how fragile a human life can be.

Still, tomorrow morning I have to get up.

Still have to work.

Still have to earn a living.

Still have to learn.

Still have to fail, if that's what it takes.

Still have to get back up, as long as I can.

I no longer have the enormous dreams I had when I was young.

Or rather, my dreams have changed shape.

I used to want success.

Now I only hope to be healthy enough.

Strong enough to work.

Strong enough to hold my child.

Strong enough to hold my wife's hand.

Strong enough to rebuild Ngồi Cafe.

Strong enough to watch Bánh Mì grow day by day.

I hope he grows up in a home with all the love he needs.

It doesn't have to be wealthy.

It doesn't have to be better than anyone else's.

I only want him, when he grows up, to know he was deeply loved.

To know how to live with kindness.

To care for others.

To take responsibility for his own life.

That will be enough.

Hậu of 2030,

If one day we have the chance to sit across from each other, I don't think we'll ask how much money we've made.

Nor will we need to ask how successful Ngồi Cafe has become.

No need to count everything we have.

I'll just want to look at you for a while.

At your hair.

At your eyes.

At your hands, which have lived through another four years.

Then I'll ask:

Have we lived with kindness?

Have we been a good enough husband?

Have we been a good enough father?

Have we cared enough for Mom and Dad?

Have we done what we could for this world?

If you nod…

Then I think I'll smile.

There will be nothing more to say.

Because perhaps that is what I've been searching for all these years.

Not glory.

Not a life spent outdoing others.

But the feeling of looking back and being able to tell myself:

We tried.

We gave our all.

We did what needed to be done.

We loved those who needed our love.

We lived up to our responsibilities to our family, our work, and society.

And above all…

we lived.

2026.

A year of starting over.

I'm no longer that young man who kept running forward, afraid of falling behind everyone else.

Now I know.

Life isn't a race.

There are stretches where you have to run.

Stretches where you have to stop.

Stretches you have to crawl through.

Stretches where it's enough to have the strength not to fall and stay there by the roadside.

And there are stretches where all you need is a hand holding yours.

And you keep going.

Outside the window, the sun is rising.

Bánh Mì will probably wake soon.

Another day begins.

To my 2026 self,

let's get back to work.

Go work.

Go love.

Go be a father.

Go be a husband.

Go be a kind human being.

As for the future…

let the future take care of itself.

If I meet you again in 2030, and you can still sit there, at peace, watching your family smile…

then there's no need to say a thing.

Just clink our coffee cups together.

Clink.

And I'll say:

“My friend, it's been a happy journey.”