The Village That Taught Me How to Breathe Again

Most of the world knows Vietnam through travel magazines, war documentaries, or postcard-like images of Ha Long Bay and lanterns in Hoi An. But Vietnam, for me, is not just about breathtaking landscapes or famous tourist spots. It is about a small, quiet village tucked away in the northern countryside—a place that taught me the meaning of stillness, patience, and peace.

I was born in the city, where the sound of motorbikes fills the air like a constant heartbeat. My childhood, however, was divided between two worlds. During school months, I was surrounded by concrete walls, busy streets, and flashing neon lights. But every summer, my parents sent me to live with my grandmother in her village. At first, I hated it. The internet connection was weak, there were no cinemas, no cafés, no air conditioning. Just endless rice paddies and dirt roads.

But over time, I began to understand that the village offered something that the city never could: silence—not an empty silence, but a living one.

🌿 The Rhythm of the Village

Every morning, I woke to the crowing of roosters. It wasn’t the annoying alarm clock I used to hit “snooze” on, but a natural reminder that the day had begun. My grandmother would already be in the kitchen, boiling water over a wood fire, her hands moving as though guided by memory rather than thought.

After breakfast, I would follow her to the rice fields. She taught me how to plant seedlings, knee-deep in mud, the sun pressing down on my back. At first, it felt like punishment. But slowly, I realized how meditative the act was. Each movement of planting, each step forward in the soft earth, had a rhythm. The fields became a breathing organism, and I was a small part of its pulse.

In the afternoons, I wandered along the dirt paths shaded by bamboo trees. Children ran barefoot, chasing dragonflies. Old men sat together drinking green tea, their laughter echoing across the village square. Life moved slowly, but it never felt stagnant.

🌸 Rediscovering Simplicity

Years later, when I started working in the city, I found myself caught in an endless race. Deadlines, traffic, bills, and social media notifications filled every second of my day. I forgot the stillness of the rice fields, the patient rhythm of my grandmother’s hands, the warmth of simple conversations shared over tea.

It wasn’t until one particularly exhausting week that I decided to return. I bought a bus ticket, left my phone in my backpack, and let the road carry me back to the village I had once underestimated.

The moment I stepped down from the bus, the air felt different. It wasn’t just cleaner; it was lighter, freer, almost forgiving. My grandmother’s house looked the same, though the paint had faded, and the wooden door creaked louder. She was there, waiting, her smile as familiar as the sunrise.

That evening, we sat outside as the sun sank behind the mountains. I watched the sky change from gold to pink to deep purple. Fireflies began to flicker in the tall grass. I realized how long it had been since I had watched the day end without checking my phone. For the first time in years, I let the moment simply exist.

🌅 What the Village Taught Me

The village taught me that peace is not about escaping life but about returning to it. We often think happiness lies in constant movement—in new experiences, new purchases, new achievements. But sometimes, happiness is as simple as watching rice sway in the wind, hearing crickets sing in the dark, or sipping tea with someone you love.

I do not live in the village now. My work keeps me in the city, where deadlines and traffic still dominate most of my days. But the lessons I learned there travel with me. I have learned to breathe more slowly, to eat without rushing, to sit in silence without needing to fill it with noise.

Whenever life feels overwhelming, I close my eyes and picture the fields stretching endlessly under the setting sun. I remind myself that peace is always closer than I think—it lives in stillness, in patience, and in remembering where I came from.