Sandra Christina Talukder

From Bangladesh to Vietnam: A Journey of Growth

I did not have a happy childhood.

Losing my father at a young age meant the difficulty didn’t end with childhood; it followed me into adulthood. I carried too much pain, anger, and confusion for far too long. It affected the way I loved my mother, my sister, and the people around me. I became easily irritable, distant, and hard to approach.

My early years were filled with pressure: financial strain, emotional turbulence, and social prejudice. My mother bore everything alone. As a widowed woman navigating a patriarchal society while raising two daughters – one with special needs – she carried it all with quiet strength and unshakable resilience.

At 19, I started working. When your family has only one pillar left, choices are no longer about “want” but about “how to keep going.” I couldn’t allow myself to become another burden.

I graduated with distinction and took on my first job as a freelance content writer. In 2021, while interning at a marketing company, I studied Business Management on the side. Those months of juggling work and study were exhausting, but filled with determination. A year later, I graduated with distinction again and became a full-time Marketing Executive. I thought I had finally found the “right path.”

But gradually, I realised no matter how hard I worked, I had to constantly prove myself. A certificate and a few years of experience were never enough for my efforts to be truly recognised. I had to fight for every opportunity, every small acknowledgement.

In July 2024, I took the IELTS exam. My mother was already unwell, yet she still smiled and encouraged me: “Don’t let anything hold you back.” I finished the exam and received the result a few days later, but before I could celebrate, my mother fell critically ill.

I had sensed something was wrong and took her to the hospital. The doctors diagnosed a stroke. Even after emergency treatment saved her life, she remained unconscious for almost a full day. I stayed by her side for five nights, barely sleeping; it felt like the longest stretch of time I had ever lived through.

After she was discharged, I took on a new job. I didn’t want to use the money in her account to support us; I wanted to shoulder it myself. I joined ARKAY Multimedia Ltd. as a Client Relations Manager – a senior position with better pay.

It seemed like life was finally stabilising. But late 2024 brought another storm.

My older sister, who is autistic, began to fall ill. Although I am the younger sibling, I have always seen her as someone who needed protection. She was born fragile, with multiple health issues, especially chronic liver disease. She had been fighting it for five years, but suddenly things deteriorated rapidly.

She started losing weight. Her face grew hollow, her body weaker each day. I had never seen her so exhausted. The person who once filled our home with laughter and optimism could no longer hold onto that spark. It felt as if life was draining out of her, piece by piece.

After five days in the hospital, the doctors told us her liver was failing, and her hemoglobin had dropped to a dangerous level. She was diagnosed with cirrhosis – the same disease that took our father’s life.

We moved in and out of the hospital constantly. There were moments when I thought she wouldn’t survive.

At the end of December, after my sister was finally discharged, I spent New Year’s Eve with my mother and sister. As fireworks lit up outside the window, one thought stayed in my mind: If life had tilted just slightly, I could have lost them both.

I always knew life was fragile, but never this fragile. My journey was never easy, but my mother had always been the anchor holding me up. Yet 2024 was unlike anything I had experienced – a year that drained me to the core, physically, emotionally, and mentally.

So I chose silence. For one month, I told no one – not friends, not relatives, not even my mother. I carried everything alone and quietly put myself back together. I set a “mental deadline” for myself: one month to reset, regain clarity, take care of my sister, support my mother, and most importantly, reclaim my own path.

Because no matter where life pushed me, I knew one thing: I couldn’t abandon my dream of completing my bachelor’s degree.

I am 28. People often tell me it’s too late to start university. But deep down, I know the only time it is too late is when you stop breathing.

Having come so close to losing the people I love most, I changed. The experience forced me to re-evaluate everything, to ask myself: what is worth fighting for? And I realised it was education – my dream.

I already had a career, experience, and achievements I was proud of. But I wanted more: to learn, to grow, and to challenge myself beyond the limits of work.

When I decided to study abroad, I wasn’t dreaming foolishly. I dreamed realistically. All I needed was an option within my financial reach. I applied to two universities: Lincoln University (Malaysia) and the British University Vietnam (BUV).

Ironically, flying from Bangladesh to Malaysia takes only a few hours, while travelling to Viet Nam requires a transit. People talk about Viet Nam as a travel destination – beaches, food, honeymoons – never as a place to pursue higher education.

I often joked: “My life has never been normal, so why should my education be?”. So I chose BUV. Others come to Viet Nam for a one-week holiday; I turned it into a new chapter of my life. And honestly, if I have to cry over deadlines or homesickness, I’d rather do it while looking at Ha Long Bay.

For me, this journey is not just about earning a degree. It is a responsibility – because my mother needs me. Growing up in Bangladesh, I was taught that family comes first, especially for daughters. Women must obey, sacrifice, stay close. After nearly losing my sister and mother in 2024, I felt guilty for wanting more for myself – guilty for dreaming of a future where I wasn’t living solely for others, but also for me.

I didn’t always understand my mother. I was angry, distant, disappointed. It took years, wounds, and the courage to start again to recognise the pain she carried and the calm strength she chose to mask it with. That is why, no matter how tired I am, she remains my priority. She spent her whole life protecting me and my sister. Now it is my turn to care for her.

Coming to BUV was not an escape; it was a renewal. A deliberate choice after years of being worn down by responsibility and pressure. I didn’t leave because there was nothing left for me at home. I left because there was too much – too many burdens, expectations, and dreams buried beneath survival. And I no longer wanted to bury them.

Here, I am learning to be calmer, wiser, and more grounded – someone who responds to life not with knee-jerk reactions, but with understanding and intention.

My father once taught me: “Live with integrity, and never let anyone convince you that you cannot.” Here in Viet Nam, surrounded by a vibrant international community at BUV, I live by that lesson every day, with my own strength and belief.

If anyone asks why I am here, the answer is simple: because I refuse to live with regret. I don’t want to grow old in a job that exhausts me. I don’t want to look back one day and wish I had dared more.

“BUV is not just where I study – it is where I learned that my dream still matters.”

My prayer is simple: that my mind stays steady – not led by fear or anger – and that I continue learning, giving, and building a life that truly belongs to me.