On learning how love is quiet and gentle, but does not have to be silent and without expression.

By Angela Vo

​In Vietnamese, there is a saying called “thương,” a word that is difficult to translate directly into English. It is often compared to love, but not the kind of love that is loud or consuming. “Thương” is not intense or overwhelming like “yêu.” Instead, it is quiet, enduring, and gentle. A kind of love that lives in habit, responsibility, duty, muscle memory, and care rather than emotion. It is a deep form of care, a soft attentiveness, and a kind of understanding that does not demand to be seen. Growing up, I did not realize how deeply this word shaped the way I understood relationships, responsibility, and myself. It wasn’t something I learned through definition, but through experience. 

I first encountered “thương” in the way my family showed care rather than saying it. 

One of my earliest memories of this was in the mornings before school, often spent at my grandmother’s house. She would sit at the small kitchen table getting my breakfast ready while I moved slowly around the room, still half-asleep. Without raising her voice, she would look at me and say, “Ăn đi con, đừng vội quá.” I shrugged but, she would smile gently and respond, “Thương mình thì phải biết lo cho mình trước.” There was no lecture or dramatic warning, just quiet guidance wrapped in care. At the time, I didn’t realize she was teaching me more than how to take care of my body. She was teaching me what “thương” looked like in practice. My mother rarely expressed affection through words. There were no long conversations about feelings or explicit reassurances. Instead, love showed up in actions: meals prepared without being asked, reminders to dress warmly, sacrifices made quietly in the background. As a child, I accepted this without question. It felt normal. Only later did I realize that this quiet form of love taught me to associate care with endurance rather than expression. 

Growing up, I learned to observe rather than speak. 

My grandmother noticed this long before I did. When I was younger, I would sit beside her while she folded laundry or prepared food, telling me stories from her time but one afternoon, she glanced at me and asked softly, “Sao con ít nói vậy?” I shrugged, unsure how to explain myself. She nodded as if she already understood and said, “Không sao. Nhưng có những điều, giữ trong lòng hoài thì mệt lắm.” At the time, I didn’t respond. I only listened. Her words stayed with me, even when I didn’t fully understand them. I watched how emotions were contained, how struggles were carried silently, and how care was demonstrated through responsibility. If someone was tired, you didn’t ask why, you helped. If someone was struggling, you didn’t bring attention to it, you adjusted. This way of loving felt natural to me, and over time, it became the lens through which I understood connection. I learned how to care deeply without asking for anything in return. 

As I got older, “thương” began to shape the way I showed up in relationships outside my family. Rather than thinking of it as love, I thought of it as duty, the instinct to stay, to adjust, and to make things work even when it was uncomfortable. 

In one of my friend groups, this became especially clear. During disagreements, I often stayed quiet. When I finally tried to explain how I felt, I remember being asked, “Why didn’t you say anything earlier?” I didn’t know how to answer. In my mind, staying silent was proof that I cared. Speaking up felt like asking for too much. So instead, I would say, “It’s fine,” even when it wasn’t, believing that enduring discomfort was kinder than causing conflict. I expressed care through patience, consistency, and presence. I stayed quiet when something hurt. I believed that enduring discomfort was a form of loyalty. To me, caring meant staying, understanding, and adjusting myself so others would feel comfortable. I didn’t realize that in doing so, I often placed my own needs second. 

I understood that her absence was not a lack of care, but another form of it. Working was how she loved us. Showing up when she could was how she loved me.

There were moments when I felt misunderstood, but I brushed them aside. I told myself that love did not need to be loud to be real. I believed that if I cared deeply enough, it would be felt without explanation. When conflicts arose, I leaned toward silence, assuming that understanding would come naturally. I thought that needing to explain myself meant I was asking for too much. 

Over time, this way of loving began to weigh on me. 

I began to see this most clearly through my mother.  She worked long hours doing nails, often staying late because extra time meant extra money, and extra money meant stability to support herself, my grandmother and I. There were days when she surprised me by showing up to one of my swimming meets in elementary school, still wearing her work uniform, the smell of acetone lingering as she waved from the bleachers with my grandmother. I remember walking up drenched and asking her surprisingly, “Why are you here today?” She smiled and said, “Không sao đâu, hôm nay mẹ muốn coi con bơi.” I knew what that meant. Choosing to be there meant choosing to lose money. 

At the same time, there were school events she couldn’t attend. On those days, she would tell me quietly before leaving for work, “Hôm nay mẹ bận, con hiểu mẹ okay?” And I did understand. I never felt angry. Instead, I felt something closer to acceptance. I understood that her absence was not a lack of care, but another form of it. Working was how she loved us. Showing up when she could was how she loved me. Holding both of those truths at once taught me what “thương” really meant. I noticed how often I absorbed emotions without releasing them. I became skilled at sensing shifts in tone and mood, always ready to adapt. While this made me attentive, it also made me tired. I cared deeply, but I rarely felt fully seen. Still, I held onto the idea that this was what love was supposed to look like. 

The realization came slowly. 

I thought about my grandmother again during this time. I remembered a conversation we once had when I was older and feeling overwhelmed. I told her, almost apologetically, “Con không muốn làm phiền ai.” She looked at me and replied, “Con im lặng không phải lúc nào cũng là thương. Đôi khi, nói ra mới là thương.” Hearing that unsettled me. It challenged the belief I had carried for so long; that silence was always kinder. It wasn’t sparked by one argument or one ending, but by a growing awareness that something was missing. I began to notice how often my feelings stayed internal, unspoken, and unresolved. I started to question whether quiet endurance was always an act of love or whether it had become a habit rooted in fear of disruption. 

I thought about my childhood again, about how care was shown without words. While that form of love was genuine, I began to understand that it was shaped by survival, responsibility, and cultural expectation. Silence was not a lack of love, but it was also not always a choice. Recognizing this allowed me to separate what was learned from what was healthy for me now.

Understanding “thương” differently became a turning point. I began to see it as a quieter form of love, one shaped by responsibility and instinct rather than passion. I began to see it not as love, but as a quiet sense of responsibility that had been passed down to me. While that responsibility taught me empathy and patience, it also taught me to put myself second. I realized that while it represents deep care, it does not require self-erasure. Caring for someone does not mean carrying everything alone. It does not mean avoiding difficult conversations or minimizing your own emotions. True care can exist alongside honesty and self-respect. 

Learning this was uncomfortable. Speaking up felt unnatural at first. I worried that expressing my needs would disrupt the quiet balance I had learned to maintain. But each time I chose to speak instead of staying silent, I felt a small sense of relief. I began to understand that love could be both gentle and expressive. 

Now, when I think of “thương,” I see it not just as quiet endurance, but as intentional care. It is still soft and deep, but it allows room for mutual understanding. It includes compassion for others without neglecting compassion for myself. This shift did not happen all at once, but it marked a change in how I value my voice. 

Looking back, I am grateful for the way “thương” taught me empathy, patience, and attentiveness. These qualities are part of who I am. But growing up also meant learning when to redefine what love looks like. I no longer believe that care must be silent to be sincere. 

“Thương” will always be part of my identity. It lives in the way I notice small details, in the way I stay present, and in the way I care deeply. But now, it also lives in my willingness to be honest. Through understanding this word more fully, I learned that love does not lose its meaning when it is spoken. Sometimes, it becomes stronger.