The Story

I Resented Banh Mi

I never imagined my life would come full circle, back to the very thing I once resented—banh mi. But looking back now, I see that every hardship, every struggle, and every sacrifice was shaping me, molding me into the person I am today. Banh Mi Oi is not just a restaurant. It is my story. It is my family’s story. It is a testament to resilience, love, and the relentless pursuit of something better.

I was born in Saigon, Vietnam, into what felt like an unshakable life of comfort and security. My father was a self-made businessman, a man of ambition and integrity who built a thriving rice distribution company from nothing but grit and determination. He was my hero—larger than life, endlessly working to ensure we never wanted for anything. But success is fragile. He poured his soul into his business, pushing himself beyond his limits, until one day, his body betrayed him. A stroke stole everything—his ability to work, his presence in the business, his very independence.

And just like that, my perfect world crumbled. Without my father’s guiding hand, his trusted partners became opportunists, stripping away everything he had built. Wealth, security, stability—it all disappeared in an instant. I was just a child, but I remember the fear, the uncertainty, the way my mother’s eyes darkened with worry even as she forced herself to smile for us.

Calluses and Resilience

But my mother—she was made of something unbreakable. She refused to let despair take hold. With no experience and no resources, but an iron will, she set up a modest banh mi stall in front of our home. It wasn’t much—just a small cart, a few stools, and the aroma of warm bread and cooked yeast wafting through the air. But to us, it was everything. It was survival.

Gone were the days of comfort and ease. My childhood, once filled with carefree afternoons, was now spent standing beside my mother, working tirelessly from sunrise to sunset. I sliced carrots and daikon by hand, strand by painstaking strand, my small fingers raw from the pickling liquid. The relentless labor left my arms aching, and the weight of our reality settled heavily on my young shoulders. I hated it. I hated the exhaustion, the struggle, the way my mother’s once-soft hands became rough and calloused from the daily grind. But what I hated most was seeing her bear it all alone. And yet, she never once faltered. Through pain, through humiliation, through sheer exhaustion, she kept going. She had no choice.

She had one dream—that my sister and I would never have to endure the life she did. Every single banh mi she sold, every steaming cup of coffee she poured, was for us. Her hands built our future, penny by penny, hour by hour. And somehow, against all odds, she did it. She saved enough to send us to the U.S. for school, to give us the chance at something better. When I boarded that plane, I swore to myself that I would never go back to banh mi. Never go back to the struggle. Never go back to the smell of pickled vegetables clinging to my skin.

Full Circle

In America, I worked hard. I earned my degree in IT, got a job, and thought I had finally escaped the past. But the corporate world had its own struggles. No matter how much I excelled, I was always earning less than my peers. The injustice burned, but I swallowed my frustration, convincing myself that if I just worked harder, endured longer, things would change.

Then, with the encouragement of my husband, I made the scariest decision of my life. I walked away from my career. I abandoned the degree my mother had sacrificed everything for. I chose to return to the very thing I had spent years trying to escape.

Banh mi.

The month I opened my first Banh Mi Oi, my mother visited the restaurant. She stepped into the kitchen, took one look at me behind the counter, and sobbed. Not out of joy. Not out of pride. But out of heartbreak. Heartbreak that I had thrown away the future she had fought so hard for. Heartbreak that I had willingly walked back into the struggle she had sacrificed her life to pull me out of. Heartbreak that her greatest fear—that everything she had endured had been in vain—had come true.

But what she didn’t see then—what I knew deep in my soul—was that this was different. This time, banh mi wasn’t about survival. It was a choice. It was a way to honor her, to honor my father, to take everything they had sacrificed and turn it into something beautiful. It was about reclaiming what once felt like a burden and transforming it into a gift. It was about building something that would give back—to my family, to my staff, to my community.

Banh Mi Oi isn’t just a restaurant. It is my heart. It is my past, my present, and my purpose. It is proof that the things we run from often have a way of leading us home.