SINGING
I have loved singing since I was little. My earliest memory is of a seaside trip when I was three years old. A small stage had been set up for children, and the moment I climbed onto it, I refused to come down. With my mom holding the microphone for me and helping me keep the rhythm, I sang one song, then another, and another.
Two years later, I joined a talent competition for children at my dad’s company and won the honorable mention. I wasn’t disappointed and hardly noticed that it was the smallest prize. I just remember how the judges and audience clapped and beamed joyfully at me. Even at five, I could feel that singing was a way to express myself and connect with others.
After I entered grade 1, though, I didn’t study music professionally. Everyone told me to focus on academics, so singing became something I only did on the side: a song at the book fair in grade 3, a performance at a cousin’s wedding, little moments where I could share a part of myself.
It wasn’t until after grade 8, when I was filling out one of my project application, that I realized how much I missed it. When one question asked: “What’s one skill you have always wanted to learn how to do that show part of you?” I surprised myself with how quickly I answered: SING.
That was when I finally decided to take lessons, not to chase a career but simply because I wanted to keep this part of myself alive. I wanted to nurture and refine this side of me, to give my voice the space to grow and the strength to carry what I could not always put into words.
The most meaningful part has been learning hát then, a Tay ethnic minority folk tradition from my mother’s side. When I sing hát then, I feel as if I am carrying her voice forward. The melodies are simple yet profound, carrying the emotions of generations who used song as a way to endure hardship, celebrate joy, and remember who they were. Each note reminds me that while I dream of building modern solutions like AI-powered tools for education, I am also rooted in a culture that values humanity, resilience, and voice.
Growing up, I used to sing it casually with my mom at home, like a playful karaoke session. But once I began formal lessons, I also learned to play the đàn tính (gourd lute), a three string instrument that accompanies hát then. Playing and singing together feels different: it’s not just performance, it’s a conversation. Sometimes it feels like I’m speaking with my mom through music. Sometimes it feels like I’m reaching toward others, letting them hear a voice that carries both who I am and where I come from.
For me, singing has never been about achievements or a professional career. It is simply the most natural way I know to express myself and to connect: with my mother, with my heritage, and with the people who listen. Whether on a seaside stage as a child, or with a đàn tính in my hands today, singing gives me a voice that belongs both to me and to something larger than myself.
PIANO
I asked my mom to let me learn piano in grade 4 after watching my cousin play. The music looked graceful, effortless, almost magical. But after only three lessons, the magic faded. The keys felt heavy, the exercises repetitive, and I wanted to stop. My mom didn’t let me. She set a rule: thirty minutes of practice every day. I remember the strange habit I created for myself: eyes glued to the clock, counting down the final minute, waiting for the exact second it struck 30:00:00 so I could slam the lid shut. For me, piano was never music then; it was discipline, obligation, even a kind of small rebellion. My mom promised that if I still disliked it after seven years, I could quit.
COVID arrived before those seven years passed. After two years of lessons, everything stopped. I thought piano was behind me, that I had left it for good. But in grade 9, when school pressure built and life felt overwhelming, I found myself sitting down at the instrument again, voluntarily this time. It was quiet, waiting for me, and slowly I discovered that pressing the keys wasn’t a burden anymore. What once felt like thirty endless minutes turned into hours that passed without me noticing. Piano had transformed into something unexpected: a space where I could breathe, where sound became release, and where I could feel whole again.
Now, I play because I want to. Sometimes it’s to untangle my thoughts, sometimes to share music with friends, sometimes simply to fill silence with something beautiful. Often, I sit at the piano just to accompany my singing, letting my voice and the keys weave together to give shape to feelings I can’t capture with words alone. Piano has become my way of healing, of connecting, and of proving to myself that resilience can be built note by note. Looking back, I’m grateful my mom never let me quit, because piano has become both my escape route and my proof of resilience. What once felt like thirty endless minutes of discipline is now the place I go to clear my head, gather strength, and keep moving forward.