We do not learn from experience… we learn from reflecting on experience.
– John Dewey
The first thing you might notice in Hanoi is the traffic in the street, at least I did, and thought I could no longer complain about Naples’! On my daily walk from home to school, each time I was crossing and there was no one to follow, I would completely entrust my fate to the universe and walk confidently amongst swarming motorbikes. What a thrill!
Anyway, I did manage to reach the school where I was teaching English as a second language to Vietnamese children, and, luckily for me, I had incredibly supportive management and colleagues who helped me translate theory into real classroom life, with generosity and together we injected the syllabi with a good dose of playful, creative, and inclusive pedagogy.
From Panic to Presence
Now, confession: in England, kids terrified me. The worst thing that could have happened on a journey back home was having a child staring at you on the bus. I’d glue my gaze on the book, or stare firmly out the window. Cold and distant, yes, but necessary for survival. Was I becoming too British, or just perfecting my stiff-upper-lip survival kit?
So, on one of my first days teaching in Vietnam a five-year-old ran up, hugged me, and said in her musical voice “Teacher, I love you!” I froze. Petrified, I managed a nervous smile back at her. My brain: smile. My body: petrified. My feet: run! In fact, I bolted straight to the senior teacher at breaktime. Surely, as an English person growing up in London, he’d understand my panic.
He looked at me calmly and said, “Don’t worry, it’s fine here. As long as you just smile, maybe a light, appropriate gesture, and that’s fine.” Light, appropriate gesture? My entire nervous system screamed otherwise. Reset brain, reset body… Am I just another “docile body… subjected and transformed”? (Michel Foucault, highly recommend).
Where Theory Met Reality
Soon, my classrooms began to feel like a place where learning, warmth and joy met. With the support of my colleagues, I learned to shape routines that gave structure without stifling curiosity, and to refine my instructions, despite not being my natural strength, without blurring creativity. The children taught me just as much: their energy, their ways of seeing the world nudged me to listen, adapt, and co-create lessons that were playful, inclusive, and meaningful. I found myself less frightened, more present, and more confident in blending into this vibrant environment.
One of the memories that most stays with me is the amazing Vietnamese TAs who eventually became friends. They gave me cards when I left, all individually crafted and decorated, but with a sentence in common that still makes my heart melt: “you really care about the children”.
The Other Classroom: The Mat
The very first thing I did in Vietnam (after three years of hopping between Battersea, Clapham, and Chelsea studios in London, trying to find the one, as if yoga were dating) was hunt down a lovely and peaceful yoga studio. That’s where I met my mindful guide and another lovely community of amazing local yoga teachers and students with whom I enjoyed most of the mornings and lunch together before work.
Within weeks I was practising six days a week, three hours a day, in different styles. I dropped deeper into practice than ever before. I was finally a true yogi! Is there such a thing?
Somewhere in between all that, I was even invited to a workshop for teachers run by an Australian physiologist. It opened my eyes to research on mindfulness and yoga for wellbeing and mental health.
By the end of those months, I realised that what started as a personal search for balance had blossomed into an understanding that wellbeing, connection, and growth happen not in isolation, but through everyday interactions, shared routines, and open-hearted attention to others.
Closing Reflection
As my Vietnam chapter came to a close, I travelled across Asia, carrying the echoes of the streets, the laughter of children, and the pulse of my practice, and eventually landed back in London, just in time for a Simon Borg-Olivier workshop, the very same one my Hanoi teacher had attended in Australia. What are the odds? What a beautiful full circle.
Between chaotic crossings, classroom surprises, and long hours on the mat, I realised that learning, like balance, rarely comes from control alone, but from participation, trust, and a willingness to embrace the unknown, experiment boldly, and let curiosity guide the way.