Some stories don’t need grand gestures or dramatic twists to move us. Sometimes it’s simply the quiet resilience of a mother, the tender heart of a child, and the unwavering search for a place to belong that leaves the deepest impact.
On a rainy June afternoon as the school year drew to a close, we had the privilege of sitting down with Ms. Thuy My, mother of two young students at Hoi An International School, Bin, now in Year 4, and Chan, who is going to Year 2 next school year. What followed was a brief but deeply moving conversation. Her voice, calm and full of quiet strength, carried the weight of a long journey. The emotions in her eyes, pride, relief, and joy, told a story no words could fully capture.
Chan was born in Vietnam. In 2019, just as he turned two, the pandemic began. Instead of making friends or learning through play, his early years were spent in isolation, behind walls and apart from the world. Then, at age three, the family relocated to South Korea; a new home, a new language and yet another barrier between Chan and the sense of connection he so deeply needed. Vietnamese was still unfamiliar to his tongue; Korean, entirely foreign. He became a quiet child living between languages, between cultures and in many ways, between worlds.
By the time
Some stories don’t need grand gestures or dramatic twists to move us. Sometimes it’s simply the quiet resilience of a mother, the tender heart of a child, and the unwavering search for a place to belong that leaves the deepest impact.
On a rainy June afternoon as the school year drew to a close, we had the privilege of sitting down with Ms. Thuy My, mother of two young students at Hoi An International School, Bin, now in Year 4, and Chan, who is going to Year 2 next school year. What followed was a brief but deeply moving conversation. Her voice, calm and full of quiet strength, carried the weight of a long journey. The emotions in her eyes, pride, relief, and joy, told a story no words could fully capture.
Chan was born in Vietnam. In 2019, just as he turned two, the pandemic began. Instead of making friends or learning through play, his early years were spent in isolation, behind walls and apart from the world. Then, at age three, the family relocated to South Korea; a new home, a new language and yet another barrier between Chan and the sense of connection he so deeply needed. Vietnamese was still unfamiliar to his tongue; Korean, entirely foreign. He became a quiet child living between languages, between cultures and in many ways, between worlds.
By the time the family returned to Vietnam, Chan was nearly five. He wasn’t fluent in Korean, and his Vietnamese had faded. His mother describes those months as some of the most painful. Several preschools in Da Nang turned him away, unsure how to support him. One school agreed to take him, but integration was a daily struggle. There were days when he sat silently outside the classroom, too overwhelmed to enter. For three months, he didn’t speak, didn’t join, didn’t participate.
“I used to ask myself, am I just being stubborn?” Ms. My recalls. “Was I wrong to believe my child wasn’t ‘different’ in the way others said? There were nights I couldn’t sleep, all I could see was the lost look in his eyes.”
But there was one thing she never let go of: her faith in her child.
“Every child is a world of their own,” she said. “Chan didn’t need to change who he was. He just needed a place patient enough, kind enough, and respectful enough to let him be exactly that.”
That place turned out to be the Early Years and then the Year 1 programme at Hoi An International School.
Cô Nga, cô Anna và Chan trong buổi học cuối cùng của năm học 2024-2025
From the moment Chan entered HAIS, he met teachers who did more than teach; they nurtured. Ms. Nga, Ms. Liz became the steady, loving presence he had long needed. In the beginning, Chan still struggled to express himself. He communicated with glances, gestures, and sometimes frustration when words failed him. But here, no one judged. He wasn’t labeled. He was seen. He was heard.
Every shared lunch, every moment outdoors, every reassuring touch when he felt unsure. Each small act helped rebuild his sense of safety. And slowly, quietly, something remarkable happened:
Chan began to smile. He began to speak. He began to belong.
“I have never seen him so confident,” his mother says, smiling through happiness. “He’s not just ready for Year 2, he’s ready to live fully, to be his whole self.”
Chan và bạn lớp lớn hơn trong khuôn viên trường
Chan’s story is one of quiet triumph, but it’s not the only one in the family.
When they returned to Vietnam, older brother Bin spoke mostly Korean and very little English. Starting at HAIS, he faced his own challenges. But with the same unwavering support from teachers and the strong bond of a loving family, Bin blossomed. Today, he’s thriving academically, emotionally, and socially.
“He brings home stories, ideas, and good grades,” Ms. Thuy My shares. “Things I never imagined hearing from him. Every day, I’m surprised and so proud. As a mother, I don’t expect my child to be the best but to enjoy their life fully”.
At HAIS, we believe every child deserves to be loved, to be listened to, and to be guided with care. There is no single definition of what a “normal” child looks like. The only constants we hold to are patience, belief, and compassion.
Because in the end, what truly matters is not being the best but becoming the best version of who you already are.
The stories of Chan and Bin are a living reminder of what can happen when children are embraced wholly. When we learn to truly see them, something extraordinary unfolds. Sometimes, love and belief are all it takes for a child to find their voice and their place in the world.
It’s stories like Chan’s that remind us why we do what we do. In every small breakthrough, every smile, every word once left unspoken, we find the motivation to love what we do, and do what we love. Because here at Hoi An International School, every child matters, and every journey is worth believing in.
