My final weeks in Hanoi were quiet—more of a soft untangling than a grand finale. Mornings began with coffee before seven, a nod from the guard, and the steady hum of motorbikes stitching the day together. After years of moving at full tilt, this ending arrived as a gentle hush.
July held one last ritual: the work of results day. Even after 17 years, my stomach flips with nervousness for the students. While most people were well into their summer holidays, me and my little team were not, hitting refresh, steadying my breath and sending emails. The familiar responsbility I felt was present, but the context had shifted. I could sense how much of myself I’d invested in these moments and how ready I was to carry that care in a different way.
When it was time to return my laptop, the school was a construction site. Corridors were half-finished, and the air was dusty with change…fitting. Endings are rarely neat. You hand in a device, and with it, you let go of a role that once structured your days. Boxes get ticked and files archived, but my handover? The decision of what to carry with me and what to choose differently.
What I’ll always treasure from Vietnam are the small things: the patience I learned, the way street life spills onto the pavements, the warmth of the people who remember your face. Hanoi taught me that pace and progress aren’t synonymous; you can uphold standards while still making space for others. Belonging sits in the ordinary and you need to be an active participant in it.
What I left behind was the instinct to hold everything tightly: the habit of staying late to prove my worth and the belief that my calm only matters if nothing goes wrong. As I walked out of the gates for the last time, I felt both relief and gratitude. Relief for finally stepping into the pause I’d promised myself, and gratitude for the people and experiences that continue to shape me.
There wasn’t a single defining goodbye. Instead, there were small farewells: a final coffee, a quick errand that turned into a lingering chat, and the moment I realised I no longer needed my staff lanyard to feel legitimate. I made a point to create the space to notice these (and unexpected) moments.
The interesting thing about leaving is that it’s as practical as it is emotional. You clear a desk, but you’re also clearing a narrative. The school moves on, as it should, and so do you, eventually. Standing in a half-finished corridor with official papers in hand, I understood that endings can be generous if you meet them where they are, rather than where you wish they’d be.
I left with a list of tiny, ordinary things I want to keep choosing: better mornings, slower coffee, and boundaries that I work to uphold. The rest can take shape on its own. The city will keep humming and results will still land at 12:15 GMT. As for me, I’ll continue moving, noticing and learning how and from my transitions.
Gemma Archer 
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