The Long Way, On Purpose

A close-up of Vietnamese calligraphy in progress — each stroke shaped by meaning, memory, and intention.

Tonight feels like the right night to tell the truth.

I’m sitting here surrounded by half-used brushes, dried ink stains I forgot to clean, stacks of paper that carry other people’s hopes, names, milestones. It’s Christmas Eve. My body is tired in a way sleep doesn’t immediately fix, not exhaustion, but earned weight.

This year, I realized something important — and heavy.

The majority of my job isn’t just making art.
It’s education.

Explaining that Vietnamese calligraphy exists.
Explaining why words matter.
Explaining that culture isn’t a trend, a decoration, or a seasonal program.

And that means the road ahead is going to be longgggggg.

Because no one has really carved out a path like this before - not in the way I’m trying to do it. Not slow. Not public and deeply personal at the same time. And some days, that truth feels daunting. Other days, it feels strangely freeing.

It’s okay, though. I think.
I guess I’ve got time. Or at least I hope I do.
I have the rest of my life to keep doing this.

Still, I’d be lying if I said comparison doesn’t creep in.

Sometimes I feel behind. My friends are buying houses, moving up corporate ladders, talking about retirement accounts, investments, stability, and becoming mothers. And I’m still here.

I turn 30 next year and….

…on paper, I look like the image of a disappointing daughter.
College dropped out, corporate dropped out

No health insurance.
No stable job.
No house.
No car.

None of the boxes that are supposed to mean success are checked.

And yet — outside of those boxes — I am happier than I’ve ever been.

I didn’t even realize how true that was until I saw the photos and videos my friends and family took of me at markets and events. My shoulders relaxed. My posture different. My face softer. My smile unforced. I am genuinely happy. Not pretending. Not coping.

Happy because I love this.
Because I’ve loved it quietly for so long, and now I finally get to do it.

So yes, the road is long. But I’m building it one brick at a time, in the most honest way I know how.

There’s another truth I don’t say out loud often.

I feel shame that I’m not literate enough — that I don’t always know things on the spot, the way people expect a calligrapher to. Calligraphers are often seen as scholars, masters of language, history, and philosophy. And I carry Vietnam with only the knowledge I had at sixteen. I didn’t get to grow academically in my mother tongue the way I wish I had.

So I ask Google.
I ask my mom.
I ask my dad.

When someone shares their intention or their story with me, I search for words the best way I know how. I look things up in Vietnamese. I sit with phrases until they feel right. I am often just as lost as they are - but at least now, I have enough Vietnamese to search in my mother tongue. I built my entire art practice based on feeling - because I’m still searching for the words along the way

I feel shame that I don’t look like the scholar people imagine - the master who knows everything by heart.

But moments like this - when the doubt gets loud - I lean on my mother tongue for strength.

The phrase I wrote for myself this year is “dám nghĩ dám làm.”
Dare to think. Dare to do.

It has been my quiet supporter through every first, every leap, every “crazy” event I wasn’t sure I was ready for. I wrote it for myself, not because I was fearless, but because I wasn’t. Because sometimes courage needs to be named before it can be lived.

Maybe that’s the kind of calligrapher I am.

Not the scholar who knows everything -
but the student who keeps showing up.
Of language.
Of art.
Of lineage.
And, unexpectedly, of myself.

There’s fear, too. Sometimes I fear mistakes so deeply that I freeze. I feel the weight of what I’m representing — culture, memory, ancestry - and I worry I’m not worthy of holding something this sacred. That I might get it wrong. That I might not honor it the way it deserves.

But then I remember: this work has always been carried forward by imperfect hands. By people who asked questions. By people who dared anyway.

This year didn’t give me certainty.
It gave me clarity.

That this path may never look conventional.
That it may take longer.
That it may never make sense on paper.

But it lights up my soul.

And right now, that feels like enough to keep going.

Thank you for being here and witnessing this journey!

Baby me held by my grandmother — a quiet reminder of where this journey began.

Thương,

Linh