(A very long post indeed)

This was a journey that required me to wrestle with an ideal of “being without possessions.”

When I was a student, I dreamed of working for a community development organization, dedicating myself entirely to humanity.

On my first day in India, starting a solo journey that would last the next three years, my mother gave me some careful advice. She didn’t say much, but she repeated over and over to her 16-year-old daughter, embarking on her first journey away from home: “Never borrow money from anyone.

Don’t be afraid of running out of money. If you’re out, just bear with it; you’ll get your scholarship next month.

Don’t borrow money, because that debt could turn you into a dependent person. You might feel compelled to do whatever they ask of you, and that’s the most frightening thing of all.”

I followed her words and enjoyed myself freely, haha, but I was adamant about never borrowing money or letting myself become indebted to anyone.

That was my first lesson about money: the greatest value of money isn’t in how much you have, but in the freedom it provides when you are self-sufficient. Never let debt take away your autonomy or dignity. When you owe no one and aren’t bound by others’ expectations or pressures, it’s easier to live freely and make your own decisions.

That lesson has stayed with me my whole life.

I still remember a moment, 1.5 years later, when I was around 19 years old, in the year 2000. I was traveling in Iran with a Swiss couple, who seemed to be experienced in human development. I naively asked them, “Which organization is THE BEST in the world for human development?”

The 60-year-old couple looked at each other, then nodded in agreement: “THE UNITED NATIONS!”

At that time, I was a final-year student studying Psychology, Sociology, and Economics at Mount Carmel College in Bangalore, India. A few months later, I graduated, returned home, and confidently declared to my parents, “I’m ONLY going to work for the UNITED NATIONS!”

My parents exchanged hesitant glances, as they were both working in the Diplomatic Corps and were planning to encourage me to join the same field. But I responded fiercely, something like, “You think I need you to get me a job? Do you think I’m that incompetent?” My parents, who had barely started to suggest it, quickly sat back and said nothing further.

My resolve was set.

And indeed, after just a week, UNDP (the United Nations Development Programme) posted an opening for a Translator and Project Assistant for their Poverty Alleviation Program in Ha Giang.

I applied, passed the interview (still with my fierce face), and when the recruiter asked, “As a woman, do you mind going up to the mountains and working there for years…?”

I looked the recruiter directly in the eyes and asked, “Are you implying that women shouldn’t be out there on the front lines?” It was only after asking that I realized this was a trap question, and the recruiter went silent.

A few days later, I received the acceptance letter.

During my time in Ha Giang, observing the project processes, the efforts of the various levels, the outcomes, and the inefficiencies, I wondered: “How can people truly know, genuinely discuss, and fully own the projects in their communities as the government aims to achieve?” For only in this way would the project outcomes be sustainable, moving away from a grant-dependency mentality. But of course, I was just 19 at the time, still young and inexperienced, so I could only observe and wonder.

My next elementary lesson about money was this: the people must feel they, too, benefit from the project, investing their effort and resources in each meter of the project’s road, in every irrigation canal the project develops… only then will they protect, care for, and cherish these projects.

I also learned that even with a multi-million-dollar project, if the specific components of a large project do not address the real, fervent needs of the “barefoot, wide-eyed” locals, then the funds painstakingly raised from developed countries would be wasted, misspent, and would sometimes even produce outcomes the people wouldn’t want to use.

And so, when I left that project and began working for an NGO, I became even more aware of two lessons I had vaguely perceived while observing the system and the organization’s operations.

I understood these lessons so deeply that I told my boyfriend at the time, a Country Representative of another NGO, “I’ll never work in anything that’s non-profit or charitable again.”

This hurt his pride, as he was also an idealist (just like me 🤣), and he pushed back, “Why?”

I said, “Because it’s not real. It’s not sustainable. It leaves too much room for bureaucracy and subjectivity. It creates a hero-giver complex, with superiority and authoritarianism… often in people who originally intended to save the world. It builds a hierarchical divide of giving-receiving, proactive-charity and passive-dependence between the ‘givers’ and the ‘receivers’. This divide constrains the people from expressing their actual needs and always puts them in the mindset of begging. It doesn’t sustainably uplift people to a position where they can stand on their own; that’s what I care about.”

My boyfriend, being sensitive about his field, pressed further: “So, are you saying that those who are giving are just bureaucrats and authoritarians, even though there are so many people who need rescue and aid, people who don’t even know what they need or what’s sustainable for their development…”

“No, I’m not denying the benefits of philanthropists, charity funds, poverty alleviation programs, awareness-raising projects, etc. But I feel a yearning to find something deeper and more enduring than that. I’ve seen enough shortcomings in these areas, and I don’t want to follow that path, that’s all.”

From that point on, we debated daily. He was knowledgeable in his field, and he was intrigued by having a younger girlfriend (I was 9 years younger) who had lots of opinions, so he took on the role of a counter-argument while I, delighted to have a sparring partner, further honed and refined my perspective.

Through these exchanges, I realized that money, when used appropriately, can become a tool to support more sustainable development rather than merely an “exchange” in charitable activities.

Traditional charity systems easily create a divide between the giver and the receiver. While essential in some cases (“A piece of bread when hungry is worth a full feast”), if treated as a continuous practice, it easily breeds dependency in some recipients and a lack of motivation for self-improvement.

Conversely, a sustainable model is one where the recipient develops self-reliance, enabling them to stand firm and grow without needing continuous assistance.

This, of course, requires a combination of resilience and wisdom to create a system where it’s not only financial resources that matter but also clear insight into how to use them to generate long-term motivation instead of perpetuating dependency.

One day, my boyfriend said, “Ly, I have a friend who’s experimenting with a very unique and pioneering project compared to society’s norms: a microcredit fund for rural women.”

(A non-profit credit fund is a special financial model, not-for-profit, aimed at helping disadvantaged groups, like rural women, access capital at low or no interest rates. Its goal is to support them in achieving economic self-sufficiency and improving their family life without relying on traditional charity organizations.)

Yet, I still wasn’t drawn to this model, as the fund still established a one-sided relationship, where the recipient was the “one in need,” and the fund was the “empowerer.”

This often led the recipient to feel dependent on outside support rather than independently building sustainable financial capacity.

Moreover, at the time, I saw that the fund’s resources still largely relied on goodwill and donations, making it vulnerable when public interest waned.

What I was looking for was a more genuine and lasting model, one that allowed people to develop self-sufficiency from within rather than creating a giver-receiver divide.

Nonetheless, his sharing made me happy, as it showed me that I wasn’t completely crazy, and there were talented people out there thinking similarly to me—people who had even managed to make some of these ideas a reality rather than just stopping at the “thinking” stage.

I had always wanted to study for a master’s degree in the UK. I asked around about the cost and did the math, realizing it would probably take over a decade of saving my monthly salary to afford it.

Then, in 2003, I heard about Chevening, a scholarship program funded by the British government. I applied, and a year later, at the age of 23, I was awarded a scholarship to study for a master’s degree in Arts and Media in Human Development in Winchester, UK.

Receiving this scholarship helped me understand money and the different ways people perceive it. When I shared the news, my boyfriend proposed, and we held a wedding before I left for the UK. Many of my friends were surprised, questioning why I would go to study in the UK after marrying a Western man.

And yet again, another lesson about money: everyone has a different definition of financial success. For me, it meant freedom and self-sufficiency, not dependence on anyone. Contrary to the usual mindset that women should settle down early, I saw money as a means to pursue meaningful things. And it turned out, not everyone sees money from that angle.

In school, my thesis focused on sustainability in community development, emphasizing the need to break away from the mentality of dependency and charity. Real community development must embody sustainable vitality and meaning, not through granting someone the “privilege” of being the “good person” who gives, but rather, through the true,sustainable impact that comes when the people themselves recognize and have the DESIRE for development. When they invest in themselves in whatever form—effort, resources, time—this fosters genuine ownership and responsibility, creating a true, equal partnership in their own growth and empowerment. Only in this way can the community truly and meaningfully participate in its development, moving beyond just the slogans of “people know, people discuss, people decide.”

Writing that thesis reaffirmed my understanding of what constitutes a “sustainable development model.” 

The first project I worked on for my master’s degree was a three-month project in the slum of Kibera, home to 1.5 million people, in Nairobi, Kenya. I went alone, but two classmates, one British and one American, also had projects in Kenya, so the three of us met in Nairobi.

I was cheerful and uninhibited, dressing in my usual colorful skirts. My classmates, however, had gone out of their way to buy plain second-hand clothes back in England to wear in Africa, to blend in.

Meanwhile, I strolled into the slum every day, all dressed up with long flowing hair, teaching forum theater classes to local students. To give you an idea of the environment, Kibera was notorious for “flying shit” because people used plastic bags as toilets and tossed them onto the street. Lacking a sewage system, it was crowded, smelly, and full of dust and debris. Kibera was also a refuge for many street criminals.

When I went salsa dancing with the local expat community (students, businesspeople, etc.), some friends wanted to get to know me and offered to give me a ride to work. But when I mentioned that I worked in the Kibera slum, they disappeared, never mentioning giving me a ride again. I found this amusing and proudly told anyone who approached me, “I work in the Kibera slum!”

Oddly enough, because Kibera was known as a haven for street crime, everyone treated each other as family within the community. Criminals only targeted people outside Kibera, so the locals protected me completely.

One day, my British and American classmates came to visit my class in Kibera. We gathered on the dirt floor, doing storytelling and theater exercises, with the children crowding around us in the tin-roofed, mud-walled space.

Afterward, one of the girls in my class boldly asked me, “Why are your friends dressed so poorly?”

I couldn’t believe my ears, so I asked, “What do you mean???”

“I mean, why aren’t they dressed nicely, like you or like us? Why do they look poor, even though they’re from the UK and the US?”

Hearing this, I looked around at the girls in my class, young African women aged 17-20, all healthy and vibrant. They may have been from rural areas and stayed in the slum due to difficult circumstances, but they were meticulous in their appearance. Their hair was beautifully braided, and they took care of their skin, which was smooth and glowing. Their clothes were stylish and feminine—one day, off-the-shoulder tops; another, lace. They also wore accessories like rings, earrings, and nose rings.

Even more remarkably, one of the girls had even won the title of “Miss Kibera”—not a joke, but a real contest held annually to honor the most beautiful girl in the slum.

I stood there, trying to answer in a way that wouldn’t embarrass my friends while respecting the locals.

Finally, I said, “My friends thought that people in the slum would dress simply, so they wanted to dress modestly to fit in and not stand out…”

But the girls weren’t satisfied with this answer. I was puzzled too because the first thing I’d done upon arriving in Africa was to buy a local Nokia phone and SIM card like the ones used by people in Kibera, while my British and American friends had refused to buy one, even though it wasn’t expensive.

Then one night, my two classmates called to tell me they’d been mugged and assaulted while trying to make a call at 9 pm.

“What were you doing wandering around Kibera at 9 pm?”

“We had to call our professor back in the UK to report on the project.”

“What phone booth did you use? (Most people here used mobile phones, not booths.)”

“We saw one near the slum, so we walked over at 9 pm.”

“But didn’t you hear people here advising against going out after 6 pm? There have been many muggings and passport thefts.”

“Yes, but we didn’t have a phone, so we had no other option…”

I shared this with the people in Kibera. An hour later, their phones were returned with an apology: “It was a group of friends of mine who didn’t recognize them. Sorry!”

I loved salsa dancing, and in Kenya, I went dancing every night from 9 pm until 3 or 4 am. But as a lone woman, going out at night in Nairobi was extremely dangerous, so I found a female taxi driver to escort me to and from the dance venue.

However, this sort of taxi service was costly, around 700 shillings per trip—about 20-30 pounds sterling, or 600,000 VND.

Going dancing every night like that would have drained my money quickly. So, I thought of an alternative: I texted a male student in Kibera named Andrew, a brilliant, devout Christian.

I asked, “Andrew, do you work anywhere on the side?”

“Yes.”

“What do you do, and how much do you make?”

“I work night shifts as a porter, making 20 shillings an hour.”

“Andrew, the taxi fares for me to go dancing are too high, and I don’t feel safe taking the bus alone. Would you escort me by bus and wait for me to come home in exchange for a little payment?”

Andrew agreed.

So each night, Andrew would politely escort me on the bus. We’d grab some street food before I went dancing. Afterward, he’d wait for me at the door, take me out for a bite, and bring me home.

For each night, I paid Andrew 100 shillings. He was very happy, and so was I.

From my experience in Kibera, I learned profound lessons about money and how to use it effectively in different contexts.

First, money is not just a tool for personal needs; it can also help build relationships and trust in a new environment. By choosing to live closely and invest in what the locals use, I not only avoided inconveniences but also showed respect for the culture of where I was. Conversely, my classmates, despite good intentions, unintentionally created distance, both from the locals and their own safety.

Money also taught me about flexibility and creativity. In challenging situations, instead of spending a large amount on costly taxi rides, I found a way to provide work for Andrew while ensuring my own safety. I overcame any hesitation about “using money to buy friendship” and used it to create meaningful exchanges. This approach not only saved me money but also gave Andrew a safe and meaningful way to earn income (and kept me safe as his “dance-loving teacher escort” 😂).

Later, in my “My Life My View” film project with seven children living along the Red River banks in Hanoi, I applied this philosophy of ensuring community participation at every stage, even if I was still naive back then. 

Every project plan was shared in floating-house meetings with the locals. The uncles, aunts, and older siblings would review and give advice, which I always considered and incorporated.

At that time, children had almost no access to professional filming equipment, yet I entrusted them with the camera throughout the three months of the project—not their parents, but the children themselves.

One mother worried, “We can give birth to children, but how would we replace that camera if something happened to it?”

I explained that the project had provisions for this, and this was a way to teach the children ownership, responsibility, and care for their equipment. Only then were the parents reassured.

Gradually, the people began to see the project as their own. At the time, I was pregnant with Dion, and the uncles and aunts at the riverbank community provided me and the project team with food, from homegrown squash to chickens. They also provided a place to sleep and took care of me throughout my pregnancy.

They even defended me when student volunteers tried to convince parents not to let their children participate, fearing that I was exploiting the kids to sell films abroad.

The community members were the first to review the final footage before I submitted it to the Film Bureau for approval. They were moved to tears, both afraid because the film was so raw and emotional but also proud, saying, “This is our life, depicted truthfully by our children on film. We have nothing to fear. APPROVED!”

The film “Green Prairie,” made by seven children, gained widespread recognition and became a prime example of using art in community development. It shed a positive light on the Red River community, fostering empathy and humanity.

Even though the project happened because I won a World Bank Innovation Day award, giving me the chance to make this project happen (since I had no money otherwise), it was at that time that I learned another lesson about money. Money only truly has value when it becomes a bridge to understanding and supporting each other, rather than controlling or dictating someone. It was the trust and affection of the Red River community that nourished the project, giving everything more meaning and sustainability than any number on paper.

After graduating with honors, I dove headfirst into founding Life Art in 2010, structured as a social enterprise. So many ideals, so many firsts that created a buzz in society, only to find myself broken down by a profound lesson about money and sustainable development: ideals cannot replace financial reality. If a model cannot financially sustain itself, it becomes a burden on both myself and those around me.

To genuinely support others, I first needed to be prosperous and stable. Without financial stability, even the loftiest ideals are difficult to maintain and develop over time.

In those days, my wallet was always empty because any money I had went to paying my staff’s salaries on time. They were also parents with young children who needed milk and diapers, and they were stressed about money, so I didn’t allow myself to spend a single penny on myself so I could provide for their children’s milk. 

I tried to endure and push through with the ideal of creating a for-profit business that would reinvest 80% of its profits into non-profit projects and courses to support the community.

The person who bore the biggest sacrifice was my mother. She meticulously saved and advised me countless times, yet she loved me so much that, despite knowing I was “a bit crazy,” she kept pouring her savings into my social enterprise, saving it time and again—even though this was her entire lifetime of savings.

As I write this, I’m moved to tears by my mother’s love. She knew I was making naive mistakes, but she still supported me so I could experience and learn from them.

One of my most painful lessons was in those days when I tried to prove my “goodness” by reducing course fees, by holding back from buying milk for my own child, by cutting back on clothes for myself so I could offer free classes to others. Ironically, the people who attended my Life Art classes or enrolled their children were mostly educated, financially stable families who valued the depth and self-awareness skills I offered for long-term growth.

I used to proudly proclaim, “A three-month course with me costs only 800,000 VND, and if you bring two friends, the price goes down to 500,000 VND each.”

Until one parent laughed softly and told me, “I’m enrolling my child because of the value of the course, not because it’s cheap,” and that’s when I realized I was like a vegetable seller, pushing what I thought was valuable by appealing to people’s financial self-interest. In doing so, I had unintentionally disregarded the true value of what I was teaching.

Only when I was physically and emotionally exhausted did I sit down, reflect, and realize that this mindset was shortsighted. If I am not prosperous, I can’t truly help anyone.

Why was I afraid, as a person of integrity, to scrape by and “bleed myself dry” to prove my goodness? Why did I feel the need to do this? Was it because I hadn’t yet fully recognized or believed in my own goodness, so I kept finding ways to validate it?

It was clear this was pointless. I was chaining myself to an illusion of “not being good enough,” binding my hands and feet to my own idealism. In that moment, I silently vowed, “I will never tie myself down with ideals again.”

A crucial lesson I learned was this: True value doesn’t lie in lowering fees or trying to prove your goodness by sacrificing unconditionally. When I failed to fully appreciate the value of my work and focused solely on “making it cheap” to demonstrate kindness, I was actually diminishing its real worth. I understood then that without prosperity, it’s impossible to help anyone in a lasting way, and that a good person doesn’t need to bind themselves with illusory ideals. A truly good person is one who wisely uses the resources they have and preserves their freedom to do good in a sustainable and effective way.

With this realization, I resolved not to cling to or limit myself with any concept or ideal. As one of my mentors said, “Attachment to money or attachment to the absence of money—either way, it’s still attachment, a self-imposed shackle.”

Later, between 2014 and 2016, I noticed that when course fees were low, classes were full, but most people would fall asleep because they attended out of habit, often exhausted and financially strained. They would take naps during class—naps they couldn’t get at home due to the demands of daily life. When they woke up, they would chat with each other, seeking empathy and connection.

As the fees gradually increased, I noticed a shift in the students’ energy. Those who came were more alert, proactive, and eager, sitting closer to the front, asking deeper, more foundational questions with genuine curiosity and engagement.

When fees reached a premium level, there was another noticeable shift. Students came dressed more formally, bringing notebooks and pens, arriving early, and eagerly scheduling one-on-one questions with me. They contacted me after the course, following up with questions to integrate their learning into real life.

In class, they would think deeply and ask questions that inspired me to delve even deeper. Many of them were coaches or educators, supporting others in their own personal growth. In a way, money had filtered and selected students who were committed to going beyond surface-level encouragement and truly understanding fundamental principles.

In 2020, during the COVID-19 pandemic, I decided to go deeper into teaching body-mind observation. Due to the complicated public health situation, I taught online for the first time. Under the illusion that anything beneficial should be widely accessible, I set the course fee at its lowest rate ever. I thought that if I could offer this essential, foundational knowledge at the lowest possible rate, with the added convenience of online access, it would attract a large number of students (compared to my in-person classes that charged 10 times more and had hundreds of participants).

Ironically, this low-cost, online course only drew about 30 people. Many felt it was still too expensive and tried to negotiate for even lower rates.

Of course, the economic downturn affected many people. But I also noticed that mainstream courses (not delving deeply into the roots of issues) attracted high enrollment despite high fees, whereas truly foundational teachings drew fewer participants. These were people who needed enough life experience to appreciate the depth of the work. That number was always going to be small.

I learned yet another lesson about money: The value of knowledge isn’t in lowering the price to attract the masses, but in allowing those who come to it to be ready and experienced enough to appreciate its depth. Money, in some way, serves as a tool to filter out those who truly wish to engage deeply. A higher fee doesn’t reduce value but elevates the responsibility of the learner, prompting serious commitment and creating a quality, in-depth learning environment.

The more valuable and profoundly beneficial something is, the deeper it goes to the root, and such foundational work attracts fewer learners and fewer teachers. Its rarity makes it precious and demands that it be respected. Pricing isn’t about greed but about safeguarding the true value of knowledge, avoiding situations where people who don’t truly understand it misuse it, which would drain the energy of those genuinely seeking.

This made me realize that people who run businesses often have more clarity and realism in assigning value, whereas those driven solely by ideals of goodness are more prone to illusions. We need to distinguish between the illusion of virtue and actual virtue as it manifests in every moment of living—a truth that resides not in theory but in the practice and mindful awareness in daily life.

So, if we are no longer caught in illusions, if we see things with clear-eyed wisdom and understand both sides of money, what then?

Six months ago, I stumbled into a program that taught proper eating habits, healthy nutrition, and diverse but balanced eating practices. It helped thousands of people lose 10-12 kg effortlessly without needing to hit the gym. I joined to learn to eat right for those reasons.

Out of a habit of sharing, I posted about it on my personal Facebook. A month later, the program informed me that I’d earned a reward of xxx million VND. I was so shocked, fearing I might end up in jail. I quickly researched the company to see if they were legal, if the money was legitimate.

I discovered that they were a multi-level marketing (MLM) company, legally authorized to operate in Vietnam, with two large, beautiful offices in HCMC and Hanoi, and over 40 years of operation in 50 countries.

And the most surprising part? The xxx million VND had already been taxed. This amount was MLM earnings. Instead of allocating 40% of revenue to advertising, television airtime, PR agencies, or celebrity endorsements, they paid the customers who had experienced the product and shared their honest experiences.

It turned out that over 60 people had come to the program through my posts in the first month alone. Quietly, Ms. Mai Trinh—the person I’d turned to for guidance on proper eating—insisted on crediting the sales from those 60 people to me, even though I knew nothing about it. I just shared honestly, as I had done for over 10 years, only this time, a massive $$$ amount suddenly dropped into my lap, and an entire corporation applauded and recognized me.

After six months of involvement, thanks to this passive income, I was able to cover the costs of creating my social media channels focused on mindfulness. I also had the time to complete and launch three sets of cards: Awareness, Love, and Clarity, set for release in November.

Even more remarkable, some of my followers and former students joined the program, successfully learning to eat well and control their health, naturally becoming my teammates. They now receive my support in building a network, from resolving inner blockages to understanding proper perspectives, along with small but foundational tips for every task.

In this model, no one has an obligation to report to anyone else; everyone is autonomous, self-reliant, and operates independently, yet they receive unconditional support from those who came before. Each person acts out of their intrinsic motivation and needs, with no charity and no pressure. This way, each link in the chain has equal potential for support and growth, empowering everyone to stand on their own feet, free to innovate, expand, and enhance the system.

The most amusing part is that when we talk about spiritual principles—about the Way, mindfulness, non-doing, compassion, greed, joy, and detachment—many people used to approach these topics only through words and concepts. But once they actually get involved in this work, they begin to witness and apply these principles in tangible, daily actions, which enables them to live freely and vibrantly while still thriving both in heart and wallet.

Just yesterday, our team held a private livestream and marveled at how serendipitously we found each other, connecting through a holistic, humane philosophy that allows every individual to shine as a vital, strong link within a peaceful and prosperous system, without competition or haste.

Everything we used to aim for in theory has now manifested in our daily work: genuine giving, respect, integrity, support, and connection, with far-reaching vision yet grounded, complete actions.

In my approach, no one has to sacrifice anything; rather, everyone is supported in recognizing and dissolving their limitations, enabling them to shine and become part of a greater whole.

The most amazing part is that each person is independent yet not alone. This unity allows everyone to go far together.

We jokingly call ourselves the “Bright Side of Money” team, because we are people who once held lofty ideals about humanity, who used to live for others, who now fully understand the consequences of “compassion without wisdom.” Many of us are also highly skilled and have faced envy and jealousy in the past just for excelling, yet here, no one is a towering tree casting shadows on others. Here, if you excel, you are supported to grow beyond your limits. I’m experiencing this firsthand from my leaders and am now passing it on to those who come after me.

And once again, I’ve learned: When each person is supported and allowed to grow naturally, without being bound by accountability or forced responsibility, they can truly shine from their own inner drive and aspiration. Prosperity is not just about financial growth but also about harmony of mind and vitality, as each link in the chain is self-sufficient and strongly interconnected, like a thriving mangrove forest, a healthy ecosystem where everyone supports each other.

As someone guiding others in self-awareness, this environment has become a place where I stand as an equal with everyone, practicing and applying the teachings in every action, attitude, and deed. It’s a “class” where the “tuition” is a healthier body and a stronger family, and the reward is true prosperity. In this “class,” prosperity and humanity aren’t merely theoretical but have become a way of life where honesty, support, respect, and genuine giving exist.

The most wonderful thing here is that individual independence doesn’t negate community connection—everyone is self-reliant and strong, yet no one is alone. This unity allows everyone to go very far together, prospering without rivalry or envy.

Thus, I’ve gone through a long journey in contemplating sustainable development, attempting to build a system that supports communities without dependency, and I have tried various paths—from NGO projects, charitable funds, to social enterprises—only to recognize that they all face limitations when balancing ideals with financial reality.

Indeed, without a foundation of financial stability, even the highest ideals struggle to endure. Sustainability here doesn’t mean something that never changes but rather a self-sustaining ecosystem that can continue to thrive, remain strong, and adapt, led by new individuals who continually innovate and renew.

It wasn’t until I encountered a well-executed and ethical MLM model that I witnessed “prosperity from within.” This is a system that doesn’t operate on a “give-receive” dynamic but instead provides an opportunity for each individual to develop self-reliance, growing while still receiving unconditional support from those ahead.

Everyone can act in their own way, without needing to report or being coerced, so each person finds their own true motivation from within.

When you meet the right leader with the right mindset, individual autonomy combined with community support creates an environment of harmonious growth, full of creative energy and humanity.

Of course, I remain open-minded, not idealizing this system but continuing to explore. However, for now, this is where I find harmony between idealism and reality, a place where humanitarian values are not just theory but are actively practiced every day with my team.

I am deeply moved, and there is so much more I want to share. What makes it even more wonderful is that I know everything I have shared, am sharing, and will share is being received and is fostering long-term, practical growth for the prosperity of my team.

Phan Y Ly