Chào các bạn, hello friends!
I never thought I’d be writing about coding in this newsletter.
Not because I don’t love it. I’ve been coding for years. It’s been a constant in my life through startups, big shifts, and moves across borders. But when I started this newsletter three months ago, it was for something else entirely.
A different voice. A different need. I was writing to process what I was learning about holding space, for myself, for founders, for people close to the edge of big transformation. Writing became the place where I put the emotional data from the day: what I noticed in conversation, what shifted in me, what someone’s eyes did when they finally exhaled and felt safe.
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So when someone asked me recently, “Can you write about how coding and writing are similar?”, I paused. At first, it didn’t seem like it fit. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized: they’re actually really similar.
It’s like this. In both writing and coding, you start with a vague idea and a weird mix of excitement and resistance. You sit down, and you try to turn something abstract into something real. You make a mess. You try again. Sometimes it works, most times it doesn’t. You break your own brain a little trying to solve something that feels just out of reach. And if you’re lucky, at some point you hit flow. The thing clicks. You read it or run it and go, Oh. That’s what I meant.
I remember when I was first learning to code—there was this bug that just wouldn’t budge. No matter what I tried, the system didn’t behave the way I expected. After hours of staring at the screen, it hit me: I was too focused on the problem instead of stepping back and thinking creatively. I felt defeated, but I also realized that every failed attempt was simply part of the learning process. The same thing happens with writing, when you keep rewriting the first paragraph, trying to find the right angle. And then, finally, after multiple drafts, it just clicks.
There’s a term in neuroscience for this: creative toggling. It’s the brain’s back-and-forth between generating raw ideas and shaping them into something that makes sense. It happens in coding. It happens in writing. And it happens every time we try to grow, emotionally, relationally, culturally. It’s uncomfortable, and it’s also the whole point.
Creative toggling isn’t just about switching between different tasks. It’s about our brains bouncing back and forth between the idea of perfection and the reality of making something from nothing. It’s like trying to bake a cake without a recipe. You have a vague idea of how it should turn out, but you have to experiment with ingredients, temperature, and timing. Every step is a new iteration of the original vision.
That’s the link I couldn’t see at first. Not the surface, syntax, spelling, structure, but the deeper rhythm. The rhythm of facing your doubt, iterating through discomfort, and trying again.
For the founders I work with, the same principles apply. They start with a vision, often blurry, and spend months (sometimes years) iterating through it. But they don’t stop when things get tough. They keep pushing forward. Whether they’re building a business or navigating their own personal growth, the process is similar: testing, refining, and making space for their mistakes. That’s where I see coding and writing collide with entrepreneurship. It’s a continuous cycle of creation and reinvention.
So if you’ve ever felt that same doubt about trying something new, especially something creative, I get it. But I also want to say: that feeling means you’re doing something important. It means you’re stretching. It means you care.
You don’t need to be “a writer” to write. Or “a founder” to build something. Or “ready” to begin. You just have to start.
I thought when I started writing this newsletter that I would be more confident. But the truth is, writing has been more vulnerable for me than coding. I’m used to being “correct” in code, but here, every word feels like a choice, and there’s always a fear that I’m not communicating clearly enough. It’s been humbling. But it’s also been rewarding. I’m learning to trust the process and trust myself more with each piece.
If you’re already started, what’s one small piece you can work on today? Just one line. One decision. You can cut the elephant to fit it through the door.
What if I told you the hardest part of creation is simply getting started? And that’s not just true for writers and coders. It’s true for anyone trying to make something new, an idea, a product, or even a change in their own life. The biggest shift doesn’t come from having it all figured out. It comes from taking that first step, no matter how small. And the amazing thing is, once you start, you’ve already made it further than most people who are still waiting for the “right moment” or the “perfect time.” You’ve already crossed the first line.
And if you’re stuck, just take one small step today. That’s how we move forward.
If you’re a coder, how has that shaped how you approach life outside the keyboard?If you’re a creative, how do you manage your self-doubt?
I’d really love to hear what this brings up for you, hit reply and let me know.
Lately, I’ve been noticing that the space I try to hold for others, especially other Viet Kieu and locals, other dreamers and misfits, is shaped by the same code. Whether we’re debugging a script or an identity, the question is the same: Can we make space for the mess, without shutting down?
And maybe more importantly: Can we keep going anyway?
If you’ve ever tried to explain what you’re building to your family back home, and watched their faces twist into polite confusion, you know what I mean. It’s not just code or writing. It’s a whole way of trying to make sense in a world that sometimes doesn’t know where to place you.
It’s that space in between the idea and the execution, between the vision and the result, that gets the most difficult. It’s in those moments of doubt and uncertainty where we either decide to give up or push forward. But that’s where the magic happens, in the mess, in the iterations, in the willingness to embrace imperfection.
As always, I don’t write this pretending I have answers. Just moments. And I know those moments are mine, shaped by the particular privilege I’ve had, access, safety, time. That’s not universal. But I hope the feeling underneath it is something we share.
So, whether you’re coding, writing, or just figuring things out, here’s to making space for your own mess, taking one small step forward, and knowing that it’s all part of the process.
Keep it simple, keep it fresh, smile and let it go.
Yours Truly,Trung
