Before the city wakes up
The day started early. Earlier than most people would choose on a Sunday.
At 4:30 a.m., my little brother and I were already awake. He had just returned from London, and somehow, even with jet lag and travel fatigue, we decided to train together. Choosing discipline and movement before the world stirred.
By 5 a.m., we were at the gym.
The air was quiet. Machines hummed softly. My body already knew what was coming. This week’s training had been challenging. I have a race coming up in about a month and a half, and being home without my bike for a few weeks meant adapting. Adjusting. Letting go of ideal conditions.
That morning was an indoor cycling session followed by a run, a proper brick workout. Sweaty, demanding, and mentally heavy at moments.
But I pushed through.
Not because it was easy, but because showing up matters, especially when conditions are not perfect.
Training with my brother felt special.
Side by side, quietly focused, each of us in our own rhythm. No long conversations, just shared effort.
By the time we finished, my clothes were soaked, my legs heavy, and my mind surprisingly calm.
It was still early, but I already felt like I had lived a full morning.
Breakfast with someone who knew me before everything else
After training, I made time for breakfast and coffee with a very old friend.
We have known each other since primary school. The kind of friendship that holds memories from a version of you that existed long before careers, responsibilities, and adult identities.
Sitting across from her, sipping coffee, felt like opening an old photo album.
She has two children now. We talked about motherhood, curiosity, patience, and the way children see the world with such fresh eyes. I listened more than I spoke.
Conversations like this remind me that life has seasons. That people grow in different directions. That success is not one single definition.
I left that breakfast feeling softer. More human.
Choosing rest before intensity
Before the interviews began, I carved out one intentional hour for rest.
My brother and I went to one of my favorite places in my hometown, Kim Golden Spa. Every time I walk in, my body seems to exhale before my mind does.
The space is filled with plants. Soft light. A kind of quiet that feels respectful rather than empty.
We booked a one-hour full-body hot stone massage.
As the stones rested on my back, warmth spread slowly, gently loosening muscles that had been tight from training and stress. Outside, rain began to fall.
After the session, as always, they served warm soup. Simple. Comforting. Nourishing.
Moments like this feel small, but they are not. They are what make intense days sustainable.
Rain, flowers, and a heavy feeling in my chest
As my dad picked us up from the spa, we passed by the flower street.
The same street I had been running through over the past few days. The Tet flower market that had brought me so much joy.
But this time, it looked different.
Rain had been pouring heavily. Wind had picked up. Many of the flowers and fruit trees were soaked, bent, damaged. Petals stuck together. Branches weighed down by water.
My heart sank.
I thought about the farmers.
They work an entire year for this season. For these few weeks before Tet, when flowers are sold, when effort finally turns into income. And weather can undo everything in hours.
My family comes from farming roots. Some of my aunts and uncles are farmers. Not flower farmers, but still, I know how fragile this life is. How dependent it is on nature. On forces no one can control.
Seeing those flowers in the rain hurt.
It felt unfair
That moment stayed with me.
It reminded me how lucky I am.
Lucky to have choices. To pursue work I care about. To train my body. To rest when I need to. To contribute in ways that feel aligned with my values.
It also reminded me that purpose is not just about passion. It is about awareness. About not taking privilege for granted.
As we drove away, I felt a renewed sense of gratitude and responsibility.
Stepping into interview mode
The rest of the day shifted into a completely different gear.
Interviews.
Today was a full interview day with UWC scholarship candidates. By now, our committee has interviewed 22 out of 41 finalists. Each conversation lasts about 30 minutes, but the energy required is much more than that.
Listening deeply. Asking the right questions. Holding space. Then moving quickly into internal discussions, sharing impressions, debating, reflecting.
It is intense work.
By the end of the day, around 9:30 p.m., we finally wrapped up.
Was I tired?
Absolutely.
Was the committee tired?
Without a doubt.
But we were also energized.
The quiet pride of doing meaningful work
It is incredibly powerful to talk to young people who have put their hearts into their applications.
They have written essays. Gone through multiple rounds. Waited. Prepared. Hoped.
And in those 30 minutes, they try to show us who they are beyond the paper.
Every conversation reminds me why this work matters.
I felt proud.
Proud of the candidates. Proud of the committee. Proud of myself for continuing to show up, even when energy is low.
This is not glamorous work. It is detailed. Emotional. Time-consuming.
But it changes lives.
When preparation looks different
Normally, Sundays are my reset day.
I usually spend time reviewing the week ahead, planning priorities, and closing loose ends. It helps me feel grounded and prepared.
This Sunday was different.
By the time interviews ended, I only had about an hour and a half to go through materials for the next day. Next week is intense. The week before Tet always is.
Projects are ramping up. Deadlines are tighter. Expectations are higher.
I felt pressure.
But I also felt proud of myself for pushing through. For adapting. For doing what needed to be done without self-judgment.
The emotional weight of leadership
Leading the selection process is not just logistical.
It is emotional.
We are nearing the final stretch. Interviews will continue through next week. The final list is planned for mid-February. Forty-one candidates. Dozens of hours. Hundreds of decisions.
Carrying that responsibility is heavy.
But it is also deeply meaningful.
I am reminded again and again how fortunate I am to be able to contribute in this way. To be trusted with young people’s futures. To give back to a system that once changed my own life.
Tet flowers as a mirror of life
That day, everything felt connected.
The early morning training. The quiet conversations. The massage and soup. The rain-soaked flowers. The long interviews.
Tet flowers are fragile. They bloom beautifully, but they depend on timing, care, and luck.
So do people.
So do dreams.
Watching those flowers struggle in the rain reminded me that resilience is not about avoiding storms. It is about continuing anyway.
By the time I finally sat down at night, exhaustion settled into my bones.
But beneath it, there was clarity.
I am tired because I am doing work that matters.
I am sore because I am training toward something meaningful.
I am emotional because I am paying attention.
Not all tiredness is bad.
Some tiredness is the kind you feel when your life is full, aligned, and honest.