[ NGUYEN ANH THU ]

It began as a way to share pictures and talk with other fans. I did not think of it as work. I simply loved creating posts, editing banners, and watching people interact in the comments. Then more followers appeared, and the small page turned into a busy community. Suddenly there were schedules to plan, messages to answer, and collaborators to coordinate. I found myself working with older students, some in high school and even university, who already knew how to design, promote, and analyze engagement.

 

At first, I was terrified. I was the youngest person in every group chat and worried that my opinions would sound childish. Whenever they discussed deadlines or strategy, I stayed quiet and typed my ideas in drafts, afraid to send them. Still, curiosity kept me there. I wanted to understand how the group operated, how everyone played a different role yet moved toward one goal. Gradually I noticed that the teams were full of energy but lacked clear structure. People worked hard but often overlapped or forgot details.

 

One night, after seeing several confused messages about an event, I spent hours building a spreadsheet with timelines, contact points, and simple task lists. The next morning I posted it to the group. To my surprise, everyone followed it, and the event ran smoothly. That moment gave me confidence I had never felt before. Organization could calm chaos, and a good plan could make people trust one another. From then on I began to design weekly content plans, build small workflows, and check in with teammates before each campaign.

 

Working with older teammates became less frightening. I realized that age and experience mattered less than commitment and reliability. When I spoke clearly and listened carefully, they respected me. When I made mistakes, they corrected me gently, and I learned to receive feedback without fear. Each success, whether a post that went viral or a collaboration that finished on time, felt like a shared victory. The more our projects grew, the more I began to understand the essence of management. It was not about control. It was about listening, distributing responsibilities fairly, and helping people perform their best.

 

Sometimes, after long nights at my computer, I looked at the blue light on my hands and thought about how strange it was that a child could lead people she had never met. The internet had given me my first classroom in communication and leadership. Every plan, every message, every adjustment taught me how cooperation takes shape. Those digital lessons later became the quiet foundation of my interest in Business Management, long before I even knew the term.

 

While the online world taught me about systems, the real world showed me the heart behind them. During the pandemic, my grandmother and I often packed small bags of food and masks to deliver to people in need around our neighborhood. The city was quiet except for the hum of motorbikes and the sound of radios repeating safety messages. Each afternoon we pushed our old bicycle down narrow streets, stopping by familiar doors.

 

I still remember one woman who sold meat at the local market. She had not been able to open her stall for weeks, and her face carried the fatigue of worry. When my grandmother handed her a bag of rice, she smiled in a way that was both grateful and shy. That moment stayed with me. It was the kind of gratitude that did not need words.

 

Helping my grandmother was never dramatic. It was small, regular, and thoughtful. We prepared lists of houses, checked what each family needed, and planned routes so we would not waste time or fuel. Sometimes my ideas were too ambitious, and Grandma would laugh softly, reminding me that doing something possible every day was better than dreaming of something perfect once a month. She was realistic, patient, and deeply grounded. I admired her steady rhythm. She reminded me that kindness works best when it is organized.

 

Through those errands I began to see a different kind of leadership. My grandmother never called herself a leader, yet everyone trusted her. She managed by example, turning compassion into clear action. I realized that women around me had been leading like this all along - balancing homes, supporting families, and guiding communities quietly. Their work did not appear in headlines, but it held everything together. The more I observed them, the more I saw that care and structure were not opposites. They belonged together. The ability to manage logistics while remaining tender was something I wanted to learn. Each afternoon with my grandmother felt like practice for a future I could not yet name.

 

At night, after we finished our deliveries, I returned to my books. Reading had always been my way of making sense of the world, and during those months it became both comfort and discovery. I read fantasy stories that expanded my imagination and Vietnamese literature that grounded me in culture. Among them, Truyện Kiều left the deepest mark.

 

I remember holding that worn paperback on a rainy evening, tracing the delicate verses with my finger. Kiều’s story was tragic, full of beauty and injustice woven together. The way she endured a life shaped by male authority opened my eyes to how deeply gender expectations were built into society. It felt strange that a story written centuries ago could still mirror conversations I heard around me. That realization stung, yet it also gave me direction. If stories could preserve injustice for centuries, maybe they could also help us confront it. I began to reread the poem differently, paying attention to the silences between lines - spaces where women’s feelings were implied but unsaid. It was the same kind of silence I had seen in the women we helped during the pandemic. The connection between literature and life became clear. Both told me that systems, whether cultural or economic, often overlook those who sustain them.

 

As I turned more pages, my curiosity widened into purpose. I wanted to understand not only characters but also the structures that shaped their choices. I started writing short reflections about the women around me, comparing their endurance to the grace I found in stories. It was a quiet project, just a few notebooks filled with observations, but it changed how I saw learning. Education was no longer just knowledge; it was empathy made visible.

 

When school reopened, I carried this mindset with me. I joined clubs that focused on communication and creative writing. My experience managing fanpages gave me technical confidence, while the lessons from my grandmother and my books gave me emotional grounding. In group projects I often became the planner, drawing timelines and dividing tasks, but I also made sure everyone felt included. I asked for opinions, adjusted workloads, and tried to balance ambition with kindness. Over time my peers began to trust me as someone who led with care rather than competition.Looking back, the pattern feels clear. The digital world taught me coordination. The streets with my grandmother taught me compassion. The pages of literature taught me awareness. Each world trained a different part of me, yet all pointed toward the same truth: leadership begins with understanding people.

 

Sometimes I think about the vendor’s smile, the spreadsheets glowing on my screen, and the verse of Kiều whispering about a woman’s dignity. They form a triangle of lessons that continues to guide me. From management I learned structure; from service I learned empathy; from literature I learned the importance of voice. Together they shaped my idea of meaningful work that lifts others while remaining thoughtful and precise.By the time I turned fifteen, I no longer saw my interests as separate hobbies. They were threads of the same fabric, weaving communication, management, and human connection into one vision. I wanted to keep creating spaces where people could work together without losing warmth, where systems could be efficient yet compassionate, and where stories could remind us why we build systems in the first place.

 

Every experience from those years still echoes in how I study and lead today. When I plan a project, I think of the discipline I practiced online. When I work with people, I remember the patience of my grandmother. When I write or speak, I carry the awareness that words can free or confine.Those early lessons were not grand achievements. They were small, steady steps that slowly shaped how I understand purpose. They showed me that progress often starts quietly—with one message sent, one meal delivered, one page read. What matters is the intent behind it.

 

As I step forward into new challenges, I still hold that belief close. I want to build communities that feel the same warmth I once felt in my grandparents’ house, the same sense of cooperation that turned strangers on the internet into teammates, the same calm strength that carried a vendor through a difficult season.

 

That is the voice I found during those years: the one that listens before it speaks, the one that leads by building trust, the one that sees systems as extensions of care.