I cannot remember a time when I did not love movement. My mother often said that before I could speak, I would sway to every song that came from the radio. In kindergarten, I was the child who volunteered for every performance. I loved the feeling of the bright lights and the sound of applause that filled the hall after each show. I still remember my first Mid-Autumn Festival performance, wearing a paper crown and a simple yellow dress, turning in circles while music filled the stage. Even then, I could sense that movement could speak where words could not.

When I began working on my portfolio performance, I wanted to combine both. The piece became a three-minute choreography about maternal love and patriotism, inspired by the image of the Vietnamese Heroic Mothers who lost their sons in war yet continued to nurture generations after them. I was deeply moved by their strength—the way grief and love could coexist in one heart, and how their quiet endurance shaped the nation’s history.

I spent weeks listening to war-era songs and watching documentary footage of these women. Their stories reminded me of my own mother and grandmother, whose patience and resilience shaped my childhood. I wanted my choreography to carry that same spirit: sorrow, dignity, and unspoken courage. The dance began with a figure in stillness, one hand placed near her heart. Slowly, the movement unfolded into a pattern of reaching and retreating, as if calling for someone who was gone. The rhythm built toward sharper, more decisive motions, expressing pride and defiance. Then, at the final moment, the dancer knelt and raised both hands to the light - a gesture of eternal love that survives even through loss.

That piece became my most meaningful work. It taught me that art is both inheritance and voice - it carries memory forward. It also helped me understand the link between individual love and collective resilience, between family and homeland.