The midday sun blazes over Thủ Thiêm, with the kind of heavy, humid Saigon heat that makes you want to sit as close to the air conditioner as possible. The ice slowly melts with beads of condensation sliding down the side of the glass. Across from us, Allison Vương (Vương Ái Nhi) is laughing.
She speaks with a fascinating, almost cinematic duality. When she talks about her time at New York University (NYU), her English is fast, sharp, and effortlessly American. But when she switches to Vietnamese, her voice drops into a soft, melodic cadence of Saigon—the kind of voice you'd expect to hear in a classic Southern Vietnamese film.
At just 20, Allison has already accumulated a lifetime of transitions: choosing New York over a full-ride scholarship in Australia, graduating from NYU a year early with a degree in economics, working three student jobs simultaneously, and now preparing to move to Boston for her Master's before heading to law school.
But as our conversation unfolds during Allison’s first trip back to Vietnam in three years, it becomes clear that the milestones she collected were only part of the story.
You left Saigon for New York when you were only 17. Back then, what were you running toward?
I really wanted to be independent. Growing up as the eldest daughter in a Vietnamese household, you carry a lot of quiet, unspoken expectations – you always feel the pressure to be a role model for your younger siblings.
I think a part of me wanted to go to the other side of the world just to find out who I was when no one was watching, and to have some time away from my family. And then, once I finally had that independence, all I wanted was to be close to them. It’s kind of ironic, isn't it?
What was the dream you were chasing when you applied to NYU?
Studying abroad was always on my mind because my dad did his undergraduate and master's degrees in the U.S., and he heavily encouraged me to go. NYU was my absolute dream school. To me, New York represented a "city of opportunities" where you could meet incredibly diverse people.
At the time, success felt straightforward: major in economics and math, graduate, and go straight into corporate finance. I was always chasing that next achievement, convinced that climbing the corporate ladder in one of the world's fastest cities was the ultimate goal.
What was the reality of New York like when the initial high wore off? What is the side of studying abroad that nobody prepares you for?
My dad helped me move in, and then he left just three days later. Suddenly, I was alone in a tiny, shoe-box-sized freshman dorm room with a roommate from China.
People always think studying abroad is this non-stop adventure where you have all the time in the world to explore. The reality is that classes take up an overwhelming amount of time. Because I wanted to save tuition, I decided to graduate a year early, which meant taking 18 to 20 credits every single semester while working. There were days of getting lost on the subway, settling for phở that never quite hit the spot, and realizing that in a city of eight million people, you can feel completely alone.
But the hardest part wasn't the academic workload or the physical smallness of New York; it was living in a language that wasn’t my own. Because I grew up in an international school environment, speaking English felt natural to me. But in New York, I realized I didn't know anyone who spoke Vietnamese. For almost three years, I couldn't speak my mother tongue with anyone except brief phone calls from home. It felt incredibly uncomfortable and frustrating. Your language is your identity, and when you can't use it, a part of you goes quiet.
When you are 17, completely alone, and facing that level of pressure and loneliness, how do you keep going?
I think it's in my DNA as an eldest sister. I have two younger siblings back in Vietnam. Even though my parents never placed outward pressure on me to achieve, I felt this silent, internal responsibility to set an example for my sister and brother.
So when things got completely overwhelming, I had a very specific routine: I would panic, then cry, and then I would tell myself, "You have to lock in. No one is here to save you, so you have to do this yourself." But the biggest breakthrough was realizing that "locking in" didn't mean isolating myself. It meant having the courage to ask for help. I learned that people aren’t running against you; if you just ask, professors and friends are more than willing to support you.
That willingness to reach out eventually led you to some incredible student leadership roles at NYU.
Yes, absolutely. Once I experienced how much a simple conversation or someone's willingness to help could change everything, I wanted to become that person for someone else.
That's what led me to work at the University Learning Center (ULC), tutoring younger students in math and economics. Later, I was scouted to run the social media channels for NYU's College of Arts and Science (CAS). But honestly, neither role was about the title. They were about being the person I needed when I first arrived.
For the social media role especially, what I wanted was to highlight authentic student experiences and make sure international students, whose stories are often overlooked, could see themselves represented. Looking back, I think I was trying to create the sense of belonging I’d struggled to find in my own first years in New York.
It sounds like your career path went through a major transformation as well.
Completely. During my senior year, I took a financial economics class and had this sudden realization: I don't want to do this for the rest of my life. I watched the corporate executives they brought in as guest lecturers, and instead of feeling inspired, I felt out of place. I realized I didn't want to spend my career working with abstract numbers forever.
When I looked back at the moments that had been most meaningful throughout college, none of them came from the classroom. They came from tutoring students, supporting classmates, and volunteering back in high school, whether that was organizing the Global Issues Network council or raising nearly 100 million VND for local NGOs.
I realized what fulfilled me wasn't solving problems on paper. It was helping people navigate them in real life. That's when I knew I wanted a career where I could make a difference in people’s lives.
I'm now heading to Boston for my Master's, with my sights firmly set on corporate or immigration law.
It feels like there's a common thread running through everything you've described—from tutoring students to amplifying international voices. It's all about helping people find where they belong. Is that what draws you to immigration law?
I think so. Throughout my time in New York, I kept asking myself what had made the biggest difference in my own experience. And the answer was the people who helped me find my footing when everything felt unfamiliar. Sometimes it was a professor. Sometimes it was a friend. Sometimes it was simply being able to speak Vietnamese again after feeling like I'd lost a part of myself for three years.
Studying abroad taught me that crossing a border doesn't make your identity any less important. If anything, it makes you hold onto it even tighter. That's why immigration law feels so meaningful to me. It's about helping people build a life in a new country without losing themselves.
Looking back, I think that's the common thread through everything I've done, whether tutoring students, telling international student stories at NYU, or choosing my next career. If my own journey from Saigon to New York can help someone else feel a little less alone, then it all comes full circle.
Coming back to Vietnam after three years without a single visit home, did you experience any “reverse culture shock”?
Not at all. I actually feel far more like a local here than I ever did in New York. Coming back, I realized I’ve become much softer, more patient. I find myself helping out around the house more and trying to be a better sister to my younger siblings.
I love wandering around the old District 1 and District 2, reconnecting with high school friends who have returned from the UK, Australia, and the US. We’ve all changed so much over these three years, but Saigon is the common ground where we get to meet as our new, adult selves.
If a 17-year-old student came to you today, terrified of leaving their family behind to study abroad, what would you tell them?
I would tell them to embrace independence, but don't mistake it for having to do everything alone.
When you first step off that plane, you are suddenly handed this incredible amount of freedom. So, it’s important to build good habits early because there’s no one to tell you when to study, what to eat, or when to sleep.
And don't be afraid to make mistakes, and try not to take things too personally. Every awkward conversation, every wrong subway stop, and every moment of loneliness is just your comfort zone expanding.
After everything you’ve been through, how has your relationship with home changed?
Before I left, I valued my independence and wanted time away from my family. Now? I follow my parents and siblings into every single room because I miss them so much. I can’t stand being away from them.
I came back to Vietnam with a deeper appreciation for things I used to take for granted. The warmth of home, the culture, and the support my family gave me were the reasons that I was able to build a life in New York in the first place.
Vietnam gave me the foundation to leave, and New York gave me the confidence to keep going. I’m heading to Boston next, and this time I’m not scared. I know that no matter where I end up, Vietnam will always be the place that made me who I am.
This interview has been conducted by Tory Trần and Thanh-Trúc.