There’s a unique kind of peace that comes with going home.
Not just to a house or a familiar place, but to the heart of where we come from — to the meals that nourish our bodies and souls, the people who’ve watched us grow, and the memories that quietly shape us into who we are. That was the kind of weekend I just had.
Flying Home After Work
On Friday evening, after wrapping up work, I caught a flight back home. My father had been unwell recently, spending some time in the hospital. Though he was recovering, I felt a deep pull to be near my family — to sit beside them, to share meals, to simply be present.
Coming home always brings a mix of feelings: comfort, familiarity, nostalgia. The moment I stepped into my childhood bedroom, everything felt calm. The soft lighting, the quietness of the night, the faint scent of old books and memories — it was home. And more than that, it felt like me.
Morning Rituals and My Mother’s Chicken Soup
The next morning, I had breakfast with my parents — a simple meal, but filled with love. My mom, who has always been the heart of our household, had prepared chicken soup with vegetables and fresh bread. That soup instantly transported me to my childhood. I used to have it regularly as a kid — especially on chilly mornings — and it always gave me energy and warmth to start the day.
There’s something incredibly nurturing about having soup in the morning. In our family, it’s more than food — it’s a quiet ritual of care and connection.
Visiting Family and Reconnecting with the Land
Later in the day, I took time to visit my relatives nearby — my aunts, uncles, and my grandfather. Many of them live on or near farms, and as a child, I spent countless weekends playing among the gardens, helping (or rather, getting in the way) with planting, watering, and harvesting. Going back felt like flipping through the pages of a well-loved book.
I was especially happy to see my grandfather, who was outside tending his garden when I arrived. Despite his age, he still has a sparkle in his eyes when he talks about plants and the earth. My aunts took me around their gardens too, proudly showing me what they’ve been growing.
One plant stood out — a kind of grape that grows right on the trunk of the tree. It looked magical, like something from a fairy tale. I even picked mangoes and other fresh fruits from the trees, and again, I was reminded of how special it is to eat something that comes straight from the land. In Ho Chi Minh City, everything comes in neat packages from the supermarket. But here, fruit is picked with your own hands, eaten under the shade of the tree it grew on.
An Evening with Dad
That evening, Mom was out at a celebration with friends, so Dad and I had dinner together — just the two of us. We cooked a simple meal, sat down by 6 PM, and after eating, we made tea and talked for hours.
It had been months since I last came home — back in February for Lunar New Year — and there was so much to catch up on. We talked about everything: his recent hospital stay, his recovery, my work, my younger brother who just graduated from university. It’s amazing how time moves so quickly, yet these moments feel like they last forever.
What I loved most was how the conversation naturally drifted into stories from the past — memories of my childhood, of family trips, of how our home has changed over the years. My father, a hardworking engineer, has always been a pillar in my life. I remember how he used to spend evenings in his study, surrounded by papers and drawings, diligently learning about his projects. I would sit beside him, scribbling on blank sheets he gave me, just to be close to him. It’s one of the fondest memories I have.
He never needed grand gestures to show his love — it was in the way he made space for me at his desk, in how he always fixed things around the house, in the quiet but steady way he guided our family.
The Power of Going Home
Now that I’m older, with a busy life and work in the city, I treasure these weekends more than ever. They’re short, but incredibly grounding.
Tomorrow morning, I’ll have one last breakfast with Mom and Dad at one of their favorite restaurants before I fly back to Ho Chi Minh City. I know Monday will come fast, and the emails, meetings, and to-do lists will resume. But for now, I’m simply here — present, grateful, and at peace.
Being home reminded me of how lucky I am — to have had a childhood full of love, a home to return to, and parents who still greet me with the same warmth, no matter how far I travel. It’s not about having a perfect family or an extraordinary story — it’s about having a place that grounds you, and people who remind you of your roots.
Rooted in Love
In this fast-moving world, where we’re constantly chasing deadlines and dreams, it’s easy to forget where we began. But going home, even for a short while, is like pressing pause — a quiet reminder that we’re not alone, that we come from somewhere, and that love, in its purest form, often shows up in the simplest of ways.
A bowl of soup. A shared laugh in the garden. A long conversation over tea.
These are the moments that stay with me.
And as I head back to the city, I carry them with me — the warmth, the stories, the feeling of being loved — like a little flame that keeps me grounded, no matter where I go.
I’m super grateful.
