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My Journey to the Sustainable Energy for Safety...
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I’ve always been drawn to energy — the kind that moves through wires and the kind that moves through people. Even as a kid, I was obsessed with how things connected, how flicking a switch could light a room, or how one decision could ripple through a system. That curiosity slowly turned into purpose.
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At Vinschool, I built my first small experiment in sustainability: turning rice into biodegradable straws. It was clumsy, uneven, but it worked. That project made me realize that solving problems didn’t always need grand gestures; sometimes change begins in a kitchen, in a notebook, in the hands of someone who just cares enough to try.
Transferring to TH School challenged me in a different way. For the first time, I was surrounded by students who debated everything — from ethics to economics — and teachers who asked why before how. I came to understand that clean energy wasn’t just a technical goal but a human one. The school’s balance between science and the humanities taught me that sustainability isn’t measured only in watts or carbon — it’s also measured in understanding.
When I founded Solar Generation, I didn’t see myself as an innovator. I just wanted to bring light to places that didn’t have it. Installing solar lamps in a small mountain village showed me what energy really means: safety for children walking home at night, families able to gather outside again. That moment changed how I viewed engineering — it wasn’t about invention, but about belonging.
Since then, every project I’ve done — from building an energy-monitoring device for my home to studying industrial energy habits — has been part of the same quiet pursuit: finding ways to make technology feel human again. Working with Dr. Nguyễn Thanh Tùng taught me that behavior and awareness are as important as circuits and sensors. The cleanest system is the one people understand and believe in.
When I went to the Notre Dame Leadership Seminars, I began to see energy as moral work — a responsibility to leave the world lighter than we found it. Returning home, I tried to pass that forward through TH School’s Science Fair: helping others build ideas that matter. For me, clean energy isn’t just about power — it’s about empathy, balance, and the quiet hope that better systems can build a better world.
The Path of my Catholic Soul...
Faith has always been the quiet constant in my life — not something loud or showy, but steady, like the low hum of a circuit. I grew up learning that belief isn’t just what you hold; it’s how you act, how you build, how you care. Singing in the Emmanuel Choir at Cửa Bắc Church since 2019 taught me that lesson in its simplest form. Every Mass felt like an act of balance — dozens of voices, all different, listening and adjusting to one another. It showed me that harmony isn’t the absence of difference; it’s what happens when difference learns to listen.
That same rhythm guided me outside the church walls. When I helped start the Divine Artistry Club, the goal wasn’t to perform, but to share. Teaching music at Saint An Orphanage became less about chords and more about connection — about giving children a way to turn sound into something that belonged to them. Watching them sing off-key but full of life reminded me that beauty is rarely perfect; it’s alive because it’s human.
I’ve always believed that creativity and engineering come from the same place — both are ways of making sense of the world. That belief shaped Mechaholic Shop, which began as a small obsession with mechanical keyboards and became a project rooted in empathy. Every keyboard I built carried the same principle as any design: that small, well-made things can bring joy and restore dignity. I wanted it to be more than a business — a reminder that technology can serve people with warmth, not distance.
Art gives me language for what numbers can’t say. When I directed The Regrets, I wasn’t trying to make something impressive — I was trying to understand guilt and forgiveness, the same way I once tried to understand current and resistance. Film became another kind of experiment, except the variables were people. Through writing and music, I learned that every system — mechanical or emotional — needs balance to sustain itself.
My faith ties it all together. I don’t separate science and spirituality anymore; I see them as mirrors. Faith gives reason meaning, and reason gives faith direction. Whether in a lab, a classroom, or a choir loft, I keep chasing the same quiet goal: to build things that bring people closer — to light, to hope, to each other.
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