Nguyễn Xuân Tiên

From Paris’s fashion empire to the MBA halls of BUV

“At nearly 50, I still stumble over my studies, clumsy with every line I write. Some might say that at this age, a woman should seek peace, not spend her nights drafting a master’s thesis. But sometimes, it takes half a lifetime to truly understand who you are. And that is the truest part of the journey I’m on.”

I once lived a life many people dreamed of: a successful doctor husband, a complete family, and glittering dinner parties under bright lights.

But I knew that all that glamour was only a dim mirror reflecting a deep emptiness within. I hid my loneliness behind smiles and a packed social calendar, concealing my fears behind roles so practiced that I eventually forgot who I really was.

For years, I tried hard not to be seen as weak, not to fall short beside my accomplished husband. Yet in all those efforts to prove myself, I slowly drifted away from who I truly was. The breakdown of our marriage came as something no one wanted, but it became the turning point that forced me to reexamine my entire journey, when everything fell apart, what remained was just a single mother and her little daughter.

On long nights after the divorce, when my daughter was asleep, I would sit before the mirror and face the woman staring back at me: exhausted, wordless, and worn down by years of living for other people’s approval. I realized that if I continued that way, my daughter would grow up watching a mother who had forgotten how to dream. And that was not the legacy I wanted to leave her.

I began again in a way most people would call madness by going back to school for an MBA.

“Why study at almost fifty?” “You already have a business, what more do you need?” “This is the time to enjoy life, not to hit the books.” That’s what people told me, and perhaps I would have said the same if I saw another woman my age starting an MBA.

But deep down, I knew what I wanted. Even with years in fashion and a certain level of success, I always felt I was running on instinct. I wanted to understand more deeply - to bring structure and strategy to what had long been intuition.

To study again, I had to step away from my Paris business, hand over management, and accept the risk of losses. Yet I chose this path because I knew that knowledge - and a renewed way of thinking - was the only foundation for my own rebirth.

One afternoon, on my desk lay two things: the MBA application form and the storage invoice for my Hermès Himalaya bag. I looked at them both and laughed. For years I had paid to preserve a bag locked away in a safe, while I myself was trapped in another kind of safe - the invisible vault of fear and false comfort.

I once came across a line in Vogue that made me pause and reflect. It reminded me that true growth comes from within, not from what we wear or own. It was a moment of realization, a gentle reminder to look inward and nurture the part of myself that could inspire the next generation, especially my daughter, Arya.

The next day, I sold the Hermès bag.

Not because I needed the money but because I wanted to set myself free. A possession locked away in a safe could never open any doors to the future. Knowledge could.

After selling the Hermès bag, I knew the journey ahead would not be easy. But if I had chosen to move forward, then the path had to be one truly worth walking. I began again with the MBA program at the British University Vietnam (BUV).

Many people asked, “There are plenty of prestigious MBA schools in Saigon, why go all the way to Hanoi?”

My answer was simple: I didn’t just want to study. I wanted to understand.

I wanted to understand the mindset of a British education, one that values critical thinking, discipline, and human integrity. I wanted to learn so that I could understand my daughter, who is growing up in the same educational system, and speak the same academic language she does. I chose BUV because I wanted to step right into the heart of that philosophy.

Every week, I flew more than 1,600 kilometers from Saigon to Hanoi. My classes took place on weekends, the only days I could see my daughter. To study, I had to trade every hug, every shared meal, every quiet afternoon beside her.

On my first day of class, I was the oldest in the room. My hair already carried strands of silver; my hands trembled slightly as I opened my laptop. Around me were young students. They are all fluent in English, confident, radiant with potential. I, on the other hand, felt small, still healing from the wounds of the past, facing academic English, research methods, and new concepts in management for the very first time. One fear echoed endlessly in my mind: “What if I can’t keep up? What if I’m left behind?”

But what surprised me most was that no one looked at me with pity. No one asked my age, and no one laughed when I mispronounced a word. My classmates shared their notes, explained every slide, showed me how to use the online system, and gently encouraged me whenever I hesitated. When I was too shy to speak up, they would whisper, “Go ahead, your point is good.”

Our lecturers guided me patiently, not only through grades, but through every effort I made. In that classroom, no one saw me as “someone returning to school after years of work,” but as a true companion on the same journey.

The environment at BUV taught me that knowledge has no limits, neither of age nor of distance. I no longer felt left behind. The support of my teachers, my classmates, and even those silent figures working behind the scenes gave me the strength to keep going on a path I once thought I couldn’t walk again.

Between experience and aspiration, I found myself standing on that bridge, once more, a student.

Among all the subjects I took, one stayed with me the longest: Risk Management for Sustainable Business.

That was the one I failed.

Having worked in business for more than thirty years, I used to believe experience was my greatest asset. I had seen many leaders, including myself, make decisions purely on instinct. Things moved fast, with flexibility but without structured analysis or risk assessment. Many brilliant executives I met were masters of their craft, yet when a crisis struck, they were swept up by the flames instead of tracing the fire to its source.

That failed exam was my wake-up call.

I realized that risks don’t only exist in numbers or financial reports. The real risk appears when we stop learning, when we fail to renew our thinking but expect the world to stay the same.

After that, I began to approach every challenge differently. I learned to peel back each layer of a problem, from systemic causes to human factors. I learned to use frameworks: identifying stakeholders, assessing risks, designing response plans, and preparing contingencies.

I retook the exam. This time, I passed - proof that a leader doesn’t have to be flawless; they only need patience and honesty with themselves.

One morning, I walked slowly through the hallway of BUV. Sunlight spilled through glass panels and shimmered on spotless tiles. In the distance, a janitor was quietly mopping the floor, her calloused hands moving gently, as if tending to her own home. I paused. It struck me that the greatest lessons of an MBA aren’t confined to textbooks, but to a philosophy: to work with heart, even when no one is watching.

The true value of a university lies not in its architecture or achievements, but in the kindness that radiates from its people: the cleaners, the guards, the student support staff who send reminders, the drivers who wait patiently every day. They are the bricks that build the soul of BUV.

As a businesswoman, I was used to seeing organizations through the lens of operations. But here, I learned something deeper: a true institution has a soul only when even its quietest members feel pride and belonging.

BUV has that soul - led by people not only of vision, but of heart. They don’t just teach knowledge; they cultivate gratitude. And that kindness, I’ve come to realize, is the foundation of all learning.

I am grateful for the small things, for the ordinary people, and for myself, for staying resilient without losing compassion.

And I believe that any university capable of nurturing leaders who thank their janitors is a university with a heart.

I often told my daughter that while I was studying for my MBA, in truth, we were both learning.

I learned how to be a student again, and she learned that growth never stops, even halfway through life. On nights when I sat typing my dissertation, she sat beside me doing her homework.

Now that I’ve completed the MBA, I still continue to learn - though not only within a classroom. At BUV, I was introduced to PSG (Personal & Social Growth). It is a philosophy that I carry long after graduation. PSG taught me that education doesn’t end with knowledge; it expands into personal growth and community contribution.

(Learn more about BUV PSG Programme: https://www.buv.edu.vn/personal-social-growth-2/)

I want my daughter to understand that learning is not a destination, but a way of living: as long as we stay curious and seek to understand, we continue to grow.

In our small house being renovated in Saigon, my children and I are building a community learning project - a place to read, share, and practice the very spirit of PSG together.

Looking back, I understand why I chose BUV.

Because that’s where I found my Lionhearted self again - not the loud kind of courage, but the quiet strength of someone who dares to learn anew, to change, and to inspire those who come after.