When I was 16, I made a decision that would shape the rest of my life.

I left Vietnam and moved to the United States, not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I wanted to experience the world, to challenge myself, to see what I was made of outside the familiar rhythms of home. I longed for freedom, for distance, for air. Growing up, I often felt suffocated by expectations, by what a daughter should do, how a girl should behave, the life I was supposed to live. In many ways, leaving felt like a declaration: I get to decide who I am.

And I did.
I’ve carved a life for myself. I’ve worked hard. I’ve learned how to survive and thrive. I’ve grown into someone my younger self would admire. There’s a certain pride in knowing I made it here, alone, on my terms.

But that decision, the one that felt like liberation, came with invisible threads I didn’t understand at the time.

I missed saying goodbye to my grandparents before they passed away.
I missed my sister’s wedding.
I missed the day my nephew was born.

I lost my bestfriends.
I’ve missed birthdays, anniversaries, family celebrations. I’ve missed watching my parents age in real time, missed casual dinners that turn into storytelling nights, missed the sound of my native language filling the room without effort.

It’s a strange grief. A soft ache.
A quiet wondering: What if I had stayed?

Would I be happy? Would I feel fulfilled? Would I regret never leaving?

Or would I be sitting in a room in Vietnam, wondering what life could’ve been like if I had taken the leap?

That’s the paradox of choice.

We are told that having more options means having more freedom, and with that freedom comes the promise of happiness. But with every decision we make, we also close the door on everything else. Sometimes, it’s not regret that follows, but mourning. Mourning the version of ourselves that will never exist because of the choice we made.

I know I’m lucky.
I’m proud of my journey.
I love the life I’ve built.
But still, there are days when I find myself scrolling through old photos, hearing my family’s voices over a video call, and wondering, Why do I still question it?

Why can’t I just be happy with my decision?
Am I flawed for wondering?
Do other people feel this way?

We don’t talk enough about the weight of choices. About how every path comes with some kind of loss. About how being human often means learning to hold both gratitude and grief in the same hand.

Does being happy mean never questioning?