Everyone tells me I was born lucky. A family with architecture running through its veins. My father is an architect. So is my mom. At dinner tables, we do not talk about what to eat. We talk about lighting angles, floor plans, and spatial harmony.
Growing up like that, I never thought I had a choice. Not because anyone sat me down and gave me an ultimatum. But because the expectation was so quiet, so normal, that it felt like gravity. You do not question gravity. You just accept it.
So when people asked what I wanted to be, I had an answer ready. Architect. It rolled off my tongue automatically. No hesitation. No doubt. Or at least I told myself there was no doubt.
The problem started when I actually sat down with a pencil and a blank sheet of paper.
I could draw. I could visualize spaces. I understood the logic of it. But I felt nothing. Not the good kind of nothing. The empty kind. Like wearing a beautiful jacket that belonged to someone else. It fit perfectly. But it was not mine.
I tried harder. I really did. I told myself that passion would show up eventually if I just kept going. Everyone gets tired sometimes, right? That is normal.
But passion did not show up.
What showed up was me staying up late to write. Not essays or assignments. Just words. Sentences. Trying to capture a feeling or tell a small story. Hours would pass and I would not notice. No exhaustion. No forcing. Just being completely inside something for the first time.
That was when I realized something simple but terrifying. The relief you feel when you do what you actually like is not something you can fake.
So there I was. Standing between two versions of myself. One was the safe path. The family name. The stability. The pride at dinner parties. The other was writing. No guarantees. No clear outcomes. Just a quiet voice that kept getting louder.
I did not make a dramatic decision overnight. I stalled. I said I was still thinking. I drew enough plans to keep everyone happy while secretly writing at 2 AM. I lived a double life for a while.
Until one day I realized that being safe was not worth feeling like a stranger in my own life.
I told my family. Not in a dramatic way with tears or slammed doors. Just quietly one evening. “I do not want to study architecture anymore.”
The silence lasted a few seconds. Then the questions came. “Then what do you want?” “How will you make a living?” “Are you sure?”
I was not sure. And I told them the truth. “I am not completely sure. But I know I do not want to keep walking down a road that is not mine.”
Here is what I have learned since then. Walking away from something familiar is not instantly freeing. It is messy. There are awkward family dinners. There are moments of doubt at 3 AM when you wonder if you made a huge mistake. There are people who quietly think you are being foolish.
But there is also something else. A quiet sense of being awake. Of not pretending anymore. Of waking up and doing something that actually feels like you, even if it is small and uncertain.
I am still figuring it out. Every day. But at least now, the story I am writing is mine. Not the one handed to me before I could talk.
If you have ever said no to a path everyone expected you to take, you know exactly what this feels like. And no, you are not crazy for choosing yourself.
Podcast by Quynh Anh Le for The Circular
