“I have a maternal grandchild named Nguyen Anh Tuan, born February 3rd, 1989 (without a father). His Mother, Le Thi Lien, died. Due to my financial situation, lack of property, and old age, I cannot bring him up. So I am writing this letter to request that he be sent to the Social Protection Center of Vinh Phuc Province. I also transfer all my powers to the Center to feed and educate him, and even to find a good Vietnamese or foreign family who wants to adopt him. When he is grown up, if nobody accepts him, I will take him back.

I confirm the above content is true. If anything is wrong, I will take full responsibility under the law.

Sincerely hope to have your attention and assistance for him to be admitted and brought up in the Center.”

On February 26, 1998, I found myself sitting inside a small passenger van alongside a few other children and family members, watching the familiar roads of our village fade into the distance. We were on our way to the Social Protection Center of Vĩnh Phú…

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The interviewer asked me that back in early March. By then, I had opened the second location and had been running it for a few months. It was one of many questions asked that day, but it was the one that made me pause the longest.

I had been so busy building Larry’s for the lifestyle I dreamed of. I saw myself walking my kid to the shop, watching them run around the space, and high-fiving regulars. I saw myself reading a book during slow afternoons and making drinks for my friends. But in none of those mental images did I actually picture myself as “successful.” So sitting there in front of a Zoom call, I didn’t really know how to answer.

“Success is opening as many doors as possible and seeing what’s behind them,” I finally replied.

What I couldn’t tell them in that moment was that I was already in the process of closing both locations. My head was just barely above water, but for the first time in a long time, I could finally breathe. With the guidance of my therapist, I had found my will to live again. I knew I still had to find a straight line and swim back to shore, and that it would be a long journey. But I was willing to try every day, even if it meant moving just a tiny bit forward.

Looking back, my urge to build and strive started when I was 15 years old. My dad told me to get a summer job so I could buy my own clothes for the new school year, instead of relying on the $200 back-to-school budget he usually gave us. Once I learned I could earn my own money, I never asked him for a thing again. I haven’t stopped working since.

Back in high school, a teacher once told me, “You are at a disadvantage in this country. You have to work twice as hard to catch up because English is not your first language.” I hated school then. I was lost, struggling with low self-esteem, and convinced I was stupid because reading and writing felt so agonizingly hard. Looking back now, I realize I was deeply depressed. I didn’t know how to express my feelings, and I had no idea who to turn to for help.

So, I took my teacher’s advice the only way I knew how: I put my head down and worked twice as hard. Just passing was enough, because work gave me a way out. I picked up weekend shifts and worked after school. Money wasn’t just pocket change; it meant survival. It meant security.

Decades later, opening that second cafe was just that same teenage survival instinct kicking in. It felt like taking on overtime, still chasing a sense of safety I thought more output could buy me. But that kind of security comes at a devastating price, and the burnout was real.

The lesson took me years—and reaching the very edge—to finally learn: security isn’t found in endlessly expanding, and life doesn’t need to be measured by a binary of success or failure. The hustle served a purpose when I was trying to survive, but it isn’t the only way to live.

I don’t regret opening those locations, because those experiences only happened because I chose to push through those doors. Now, I just want to live, open as many new doors as I can, and connect with as many people as possible along the way. One day, I want to look back and smile, knowing I had the courage to step through to see what was on the other side.

That, to me, is what it means to live a fulfilled life.

My mother, Lien, gave birth to me out of wedlock when she was thirty years old—the exact same age I was when I first sat down to write this book. In Vietnam, both then and now, thirty is considered late to have a first child. Because she was unmarried, her pregnancy was viewed as taboo, a social stigma that still lingers in many conservative parts of the country.

For the first five years of my life, we lived in a completely different village from my grandparents and the rest of our family. I was so young that I didn’t even know the name of the town where I was born; I wouldn’t find out until I was twenty-three. Not long after giving birth, my mother had to return to work to provide for the two of us. I can only imagine how brutal that must have been for a single mother navigating extreme poverty—working grueling hours, forced to be away from her first and only child. Because she couldn’t do it alone, my grandmother and my aunt (my mother’s older sister) took turns making a three-hour bus ride from Vĩnh Phúc to our village just to watch over me while she was away at work.

I have very few memories of that birthplace, save for the physical reminders left behind on my body: a couple of permanent scars on my head, and one on my left thumb.

The scars on my head came from a hammock we somehow acquired. On a typical day, when it was just my grandmother and me at home, I noticed the hammock and decided to climb in. I didn’t understand how balance worked, and the moment I threw all my weight onto one side, it flipped upside down. I crashed hard, my head slammed against the floor, and blood flowed.

Apparently, I wasn’t a quick learner. A few days later, I tried again. Because the hammock was hung too high for a toddler, I couldn’t reach the center, and once again, I flipped it and landed on my head, earning a second scar. It took two painful failures before the adults finally lowered it closer to the ground. After that, it became my favorite place.

The scar on my thumb came on a bright, sunny afternoon. My grandmother was outside, hanging wet clothes on the laundry line, and I could see her silhouette from the kitchen where I sat alone. I was only four or five years old, but I had managed to get my hands on a massive, heavy kitchen knife. In my left hand, I held a fresh piece of licorice root I wanted to chew. I tried to chop it, but I lacked the strength to control the heavy blade. When I brought it down, the metal bounced off the tough root and sliced clean into my left thumb.

Blood erupted, soaking the intact licorice root and pooling onto the floor. I screamed in terror. My grandmother rushed inside, took one look at my blood-covered body, and panicked. She sprinted back outside, ripped a damp T-shirt right off the laundry line, and wrapped it tightly around my hand to staunch the bleeding. Within seconds, the shirt was completely saturated. Leaving it in place, she grabbed a second dry shirt, applying pressure with her left hand while tearing the fabric into strips with her right hand and teeth. She bound my thumb tightly. I had nearly severed half of it. When my mother came home from work that evening and saw my bandaged hand, she was furious with my grandmother for not watching me more closely.

For the next few days, my mother stayed home to care for me. This was incredibly rare, as her routine usually required her to leave for work before dawn and return after dusk. On one of those precious days, we were walking down the street together, her holding my right hand, when she suddenly stopped in her tracks.

I stopped too, looking up at her. Her face was completely blank. I didn’t understand why we had halted, and since she didn’t say anything, I followed her gaze. Down the road, a man was looking back at us.

“Who’s that waving at us, Mẹ? And why is he looking at me?” I asked.

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That famous "five-year rule" is very real. According to data from the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, roughly 20% of new businesses fail within their very first year. By the five-year mark, about half of all small businesses close their doors. It’s a number that scares millions of people away from ever taking a risk in the first place. They look at the data, see the steep cliff, and choose the safe path. Many others take the leap, taste the success for a moment, and eventually have to watch it slip away. My cafes didn’t reach that five-year milestone. I failed, but that wasn’t the end of my journey as the owner.

When the doors finally closed this past May, not a single person ever came up to me and called me a failure. The community poured out nothing but love and continuing support. Yet, in the privacy of my own mind, I let that cold, rigid industry statistic define me. For weeks, I carried the quiet, suffocating belief that I had failed.

The hardest part of walking away wasn’t a blow to my pride, nor was it the loss of the physical storefronts I had spent years building. The thing that gave me the most intense, paralyzing anxiety was the fear of disappointing my staff and the community I am a part of. I was terrified of what it would mean to close the doors on the people who actively relied on me. I was responsible for over ten employees who counted on Larry’s to earn a living and support their families. Beyond that, I felt a deep responsibility to our regulars—the neighbors who looked to our cafes as a cozy, clean sanctuary where they could take a breath and escape the city's chaos.

The thought of letting them all down was a crushing weight on my chest. As an introvert and a sensitive person, I absorbed all of that pressure. I felt like I was snatching away a safety net.

In the quiet months since the keys were handed over, my life has slowed down, and slowly the weight has lifted. I’ve spent a lot of time alone. I’ve spent hours running for miles in the fresh morning air, listening to the rhythm of my breath, cleaning my apartment, reading for hours, cooking, and deeply reflecting on how I got here. And in that quiet routine, my perspective shifted.

I’ve come to realize that in the world of true entrepreneurship, failure has to be actively reframed. It isn’t a final tombstone; it is a crucial, constructive step. It is the very thing that provides the raw material for learning and fosters future growth.

I also learned a hard, necessary lesson about human connection: disappointment is not the worst thing in the world. For a long time, I ran myself into the ground trying to make sure no one else was ever let down. But the truth is, I will disappoint people when I finally choose to prioritize myself. And that is okay. The healthy, restored version of me will always be far more beneficial to my loved ones, my friends, and my community than a version of me that is completely burned out and broken. Choosing my mental health wasn’t a failure—it was an act of kindness to myself.

When I look back at the business's trajectory now, I don’t see a failed statistic anymore. I see a profound, beautiful journey, and I would do it again.

I had the priceless opportunity to connect with hundreds of amazing fellow human beings every single day. Through those countertops, I was able to share a living gift from my dad, Larry, alongside the vibrant, rich heritage of Vietnamese coffee culture. I got to introduce Brooklyn to the flavors of my roots—the bold cà phê sữa đá, the beautifully crafted drinks like Larry’s Ice-Green (matcha foam with coconut water), and the warmth of our hospitality. I had the immense privilege of hiring people, teaching them, and giving them the space to learn a new skill that could sustain them. I watched baristas grow in confidence, and I watched strangers become neighbors over a cup of matcha.

The physical entity of the business no longer exists, but that doesn’t mean the mission failed. I have absolutely no regrets. I did everything I set out to do. I am still keeping my promise and mission to continue honoring my dad by keeping his name alive and making Vietnamese coffee more accessible in Brooklyn. I will do pop-ups and cafes in Brooklyn are serving a drink that I named after my dad. This is another way to keep Larry’s legacy alive.

The end of this chapter was incredibly painful, and the ending was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to navigate. But the sheer depth of the entire experience made it worth it. Being the owner of Larry’s Cà Phê gave me the full, unfiltered spectrum of the human experience. I was ecstatically happy, completely exhausted, heartbroken, intensely proud, loved, giving, and, most importantly, I got to meet people from all different backgrounds daily. I made my dream come true and lived it.

I went from a kid who grew up poor in a mud-and-straw house in a rural village in Vietnam to a business owner featured in the New York Times and Eater to someone who had the courage to walk away when the weight became too heavy. I also wrote a book by the time I was thirty years old.

I was a humble student in the brutal world of commerce, a patient teacher to new baristas, and through the silence of the aftermath, I learned how to look inward and finally express my truest thoughts and feelings on the page. And sharing it here is another challenge I learned to overcome: the fear of what people think of me.

The doors may be locked, but the impact hasn’t vanished into the New York air. The lessons remain part of my DNA. The relationships endure. The spirit of what we built stays with every single person who ever walked through our space, caught their breath, and felt seen.

I didn’t lose three years of my life to a closing statistic—I gained a lifetime of purpose. As I step forward into this next chapter, into the quiet of writing and the freshness of new beginnings, I carry that strength, that rich culture, and Larry’s name with me. I am prouder, lighter, and readier than I have ever been before because I failed.

Talk to you soon.

I was at a rooftop birthday party in Long Island City. The view of the skyline was stunning, especially as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the city in warm golds and pinks. I stood by the drinks table, chatting with an old friend, while my girlfriend mingled a short distance away. The opportunity to make new friends was right there in front of me, but all I felt was a crushing wave of anxiety.

I was terrified of the inevitable question.

My anxiety always stems from what I imagine strangers might think when they ask that standard, ubiquitous icebreaker: “What do you do for a living?”

Just a week earlier, I would have answered proudly: "I own two Vietnamese coffee shops in Brooklyn."

But what was I supposed to say now?

At these kinds of New York parties, you can’t escape it. You will chat with someone new, and you cannot leave before someone asks the question. I hate it, but I always answer honestly because the truth is just quicker than trying to deflect.

“I used to own a small business, but we just closed the cafes down,” I said when the moment finally came.

And, of course, the immediate follow-up was: “Why?”

Then comes the explanation.

Holding a beer, I drank it down quickly, hoping the alcohol would steady my nerves. Before the bottle was even empty, an acquaintance approached me. She already knew that I had closed Larry’s, and she asked how I was holding up.

“It feels strange,” I admitted. “Going from doing hundreds of things a day to absolutely nothing. My body and mind are still on high alert, still adjusting. I don’t feel relaxed yet, but I do feel lighter.” I paused, taking a breath. “I’m just trying to take it one day at a time, learning how to handle having no responsibilities.”

I told her about the sudden, jarring silence. After the cafes closed, my phone went entirely quiet, except for the occasional spam call. No SOS texts from team members, no urgent updates from vendors, no endless notifications. For years, I had been completely glued to my screen. To have it suddenly stop was surreal.

“It’s weird,” I told her. “I keep checking my phone out of habit, expecting a crisis, but there’s nothing.”

She looked at me, nodded thoughtfully, and said, “Yeah, that makes sense. Now you’re a nobody.”

The comment hit me like a physical blow. In the moment, I took it entirely to heart. We live in a city obsessed with status, a place where everyone is desperately striving to be “somebody.” I was somebody. And now, according to her, I was a nobody.

It was incredibly painful to hear. Reality smacked me right in the face, and a sudden, dark doubt crept in: Did I make a mistake? Was it a failure to let it go? I was somebody just seven days ago.

I managed a tight smile, stayed silent for a beat, and gently steered the conversation to another topic. But that comment played on a loop in my mind for the rest of the night and for days afterward.

I took some time to really sit with that word, to reflect on myself and what the business had become. I realized something crucial: I never actually wanted to be a “somebody.” I was just trying to be myself.

When I opened Larry’s, my only goal was to build a warm, welcoming space where people could gather over great drinks and community. I wanted to give local creators and independent vendors a platform to share their own passions. I never set out to be the face of a brand. But it happened anyway. Larry’s became deeply woven into the community. We were featured in the New York Times and Eater, ranked among the top spots for matcha in the city, and recognized as a pioneer for Vietnamese coffee in Brooklyn.

Without meaning to, I had become somebody.

But as an introvert and a naturally sensitive person, carrying the weight of being “somebody” was exhausting. Being visible, being performing and “on” in front of people every single day took a massive toll. I felt an immense, relentless pressure to constantly deliver, to innovate, to maintain the high standards the public expected and the business demanded. The praise was incredible, but the burden to uphold it eventually wore me down and fractured my mental health.

I had gone from being a total stranger to the public to the owner of a celebrated brand, and then, in a matter of days, back to “nobody.”

Since the closing, I have spent most of my days alone. And if I’m being completely honest? I love it.

I enjoy eating my meals in silence. I enjoy running for miles in the crisp morning air, with nothing but the rhythm of my breath and my own thoughts, watching the sunlight catch the green leaves of the trees. I enjoy the quiet, grounding routine of cleaning my apartment, nourishing myself with fresh food, and sitting down to write out my thoughts.

I never wanted to be a “somebody” by the city’s standards, but I don’t want to be a nobody either. I just want to be me—for myself, for my loved ones, and for the community that truly knows me.

The morning sun filtered through the window of my Osaka Airbnb, casting a bright, quiet glow across the room. My eyes weren’t fully open yet as my hand instinctively reached for my phone beside the pillow.

8:30 a.m.

The screen illuminated, displaying a missed call from Larry “Dad” Hilton. I rarely ever keep my phone on ring; I’ve never liked reacting to every beep and buzz. My philosophy has always been simple: if it’s truly important, they’ll leave a voicemail. There was a voicemail notification sitting on my screen that morning, but in my half-asleep state, I didn’t notice it. I drifted back off to sleep. It was vacation, after all, and 8:30 felt entirely too early to be awake.

When I woke up for the second time and checked the clock, it was 9:13 a.m. Forty-three minutes had slipped away, though that morning nap had felt much longer. Lying there, I prepared to do what I always do—scroll mindlessly through social media before pulling myself out of bed. It was a habit I knew well, a trig…

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According to the lunar calendar, I was born on the 27th of December, 1988—the Year of the Earth Dragon. As an Earth Dragon, certain things are said to define me: I am passionate, noble, steady, and strong. I am meditative, a perfectionist, sensitive in matters of the heart, and deeply averse to uncertainty. In Vietnam, life is calculated from the moment of conception; the second you enter the world, you are already considered one year old. By that tradition’s math, I was thirty-one years old when I sat down to write these pages.

Yet, despite spending the first eleven years of my life in Vietnam, I tend to think like an American—and a New Yorker, specifically. All of my official identification documents follow the solar calendar, marking my arrival on February 3, 1989. In the eyes of the Western world, this paperwork makes me a year younger.

Under this solar sky, I am an Aquarius, the air sign known as the wat…

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Sharing is not just something I do; it is a fundamental part of who I am. Looking back on my time running Larry’s Cà Phê, being able to weave that core value into the very fabric of the business was easily the most rewarding part of the entire journey.

When I received my inheritance, I knew I wanted it to become something much bigger than myself. I chose to share that gift with you by opening the doors to Larry’s. So, although the landlord reminded me every month that rent was due, I never once viewed those square feet as strictly mine. I wanted to share them with other teams, creators, dreamers, and builders who just needed a physical platform to showcase their passions—whether to an intimate circle of friends and family or to the public at large.

That desire is exactly why Larry’s became a rotating home for so many pop-ups. We opened our doors to other communities for free, simply because we wanted them to have a welcoming, safe space to gather, mingle, and celebrate. We let our staff and our closest friends host their birthday parties inside our walls. We filled our shelves with local candles, books, and home-baked goods. We were the very first to sell the ready-to-drink Vietnamese salted lemonade from Lucky OX. We even helped coordinate a marriage proposal right in the middle of the shop floor because Larry’s was their favorite place in the city.

I still vividly remember handing over the keys so that Pooja and her team could shoot the episodes for BK Coffee Shop. The moment she told me about the project, I believed in it completely; all she lacked was a space. Watching them grow from those early, chaotic production days into what they are now brings me immense joy. I highly encourage other cafe owners to share their space with independent creators, because you truly never know what a little bit of structural support can do for them—and vice versa.

In a city as fast-moving, dense, and crowded as New York, it is incredibly easy to feel entirely invisible. It is also remarkably rare to find a public space you can use for free or at a very low cost. It was built for anyone who simply wanted to feel welcome, share their story, be looked after, and be seen. That is why I wanted to share it with you guys. I know deep down it is exactly what my dad, Larry, would have wanted, too. Larry’s Cà Phê was always more than just amazing drinks; it was a sanctuary.

Even though the physical doors have closed, that spirit of sharing doesn’t end here. Thank you for being a part of the community we built, and for allowing me to share a piece of my heart with you.

Larry’s Cà Phê exists in the beautiful space between two cultures. The name itself—pairing an American name with “Cà Phê,” the Vietnamese word for coffee—represents my own identity. I wanted to create a space where Vietnamese customers or travelers would instinctively feel at home, while sparking a question: Who is Larry? To find the answer, you have to step inside.

The logo's visual was created in collaboration with a friend from my Muay Thai class. I told her I wanted to honor my late dad, Larry, and my Vietnamese heritage, but I was clear on the vibe: this isn’t a sad story. I wanted the brand to feel happy, cozy, and bright.

Our palette is inspired by the harvest season in rural Northern Vietnam. During this time, the lush green rice fields transform into a brilliant, sweeping golden-yellow. It is a breathtaking sight that stays with you. By bringing those vibrant colors into the shop, I hope to share that same sense of joy and beauty with every guest who walks through our doors.

The Mission: Legacy and Discovery

My mission with Larry’s is twofold: to preserve a legacy and to pioneer a culture.

Honoring a Life of Kindness. First and foremost, this shop is a tribute to my dad. Larry was the parent I lived with the longest. He raised me in the city of abundance. As a dedicated teacher, he spent over 20 years helping his sons and countless students in NYC. Larry’s Cà Phê is my way of keeping his name alive and ensuring he is recognized for the kindness he showed.

Elevating Vietnamese Coffee. I am driven to share the true depth of Vietnamese coffee culture. My own obsession began when I reunited with my family in Vietnam and tasted the coffee there for the first time. For years, I struggled to find that same quality in Brooklyn.

When I realized I could finally source high-quality Robusta beans here on the East Coast, I knew I had to share them with New Yorkers. Vietnamese coffee is so much more than just the traditional iced coffee most people know.

As one of the first Vietnamese coffee shops in Brooklyn, my mission is to be an educator and a host—showing every guest the unique flavors and heritage that make our coffee culture so special with my little twist.

I remember the first time I tried an egg coffee. I was in Hanoi, going up a small stairway to the balcony at the top, when they served me a small glass of very strong Vietnamese coffee with a creamy yellow foam on top. I took a sip of this hot drink and found it very interesting. It wasn’t something I would drink every day, only because it was a hot beverage, and Vietnam is always so hot. My favorite specialty coffee drink, however, is the salted coffee. Since I have a savory tooth, I liked the saltiness, with just a little sweetness and a lot of creaminess.

Talk to you soon.

The pen hovered over the checkbook, my hand shaking just enough to make the ink blur. It wasn’t just a large sum of money—it was my father’s life, his decades of sweat and sacrifice as an NYC public school teacher, distilled into a single, terrifying number. I was about to sign away his legacy to buy a coffee shop, and for a moment, the weight of it felt impossible. This is the story of how I turned that inheritance into a dream, honoring the man who raised me by building a place for everyone else to feel at home.

When I was six years old, I stole money from my mother just to buy candy for my friends and me. Decades later, money would take on a completely different weight in my life.

When I was thirty, my dad suddenly passed away while I was traveling in Japan, leaving behind the fruits of a lifetime of hard labor. The inheritance was split equally between my brother and me. Afterward, my brother chose to move back to Vietnam to start a family, while I stayed behind in Brooklyn.

As anyone will tell you, teachers are profoundly underpaid and underappreciated. My dad, Larry, was an NYC high school teacher who raised two sons entirely on his own, surviving on a single income. It wasn’t until much later in life that I truly understood why he pushed me so hard to get a summer job the moment I was old enough. He wanted me to understand the value of a dollar, to learn how to provide for my own needs and wants. Because of that, I’ve been working steadily since I was fifteen. Yet, no matter how much I saved over the years, it was nowhere near the amount I was suddenly handed after his passing. The inheritance wasn’t a massive fortune by corporate standards, but to me, it was monumental. I had never seen that much money in my life. Because it wasn’t money I had earned with my own hands, I felt a heavy responsibility. I couldn’t just leave it sitting in a savings account; I knew I needed to use it for something positive. I needed it to matter.

Back when I was in my late teens, it had been incredibly difficult to watch my dad go through a period of depression. It was even harder to see him become isolated, without many friends to lean on. During those years, I was balancing college with a job as a barista. At the espresso bar, I routinely met so many wonderful, vibrant people who were around my dad’s age. I remember thinking how incredible it would be to open a coffee shop of my own—a vibrant, welcoming space where my dad could walk in and connect with the community just like I had. I would close my eyes and see it: the warm morning light catching the steam rising from a porcelain cup, the rich, nutty aroma of roasted coffee beans filling the air, and the gentle, steady tone of jazz music playing in the background. At the time, it was nothing more than a distant dream. Once I researched the actual cost of launching a cafe in New York City, the reality felt entirely beyond my financial reach. Still, I made a quiet promise to myself: I would keep working, keep saving, and one day I’d open a cafe so my dad and I would have a place to meet people.

The one-year anniversary of my dad’s passing arrived in 2020, amidst the stillness of the pandemic. During those long months of isolation, the desire to honor him only deepened. The inheritance money sat untouched, a silent weight in my savings account, as I waited and wondered how to transform his legacy into something that could bring people back together after so much time apart.

As life slowly reclaimed its rhythm, I felt as though I was in a holding pattern, waiting for a new chapter to begin but unsure of where to find the first page. I was looking for a sign, something to bridge the gap between my quiet promise and the reality of a city waking up again.

A casual chat with a close friend and roommate of mine at the time told me about a coffee shop in East Williamsburg called Tar Pit, which he had discovered with his motorcycle crew. He remembered my old dream of opening a cafe and suggested I connect with Keri, the owner, to pick her brain. I called her, we had a great conversation, and we stayed in touch. Months later, while I was at my day job, Keri reached out with unexpected news: she was ready to sell the shop.

In December 2023, I bought Tar Pit using my inheritance.

I remember the sheer terror I felt as I held the pen, preparing to write a check that large. This wasn’t just currency; it was my dad’s life, his sweat, and his sacrifices. I told myself that if I lost it all, then it simply wasn’t meant to be. But if I was going to risk it, I was going to do it to chase a dream, to create something deeply positive, and to honor the man who raised me.

That month, Larry’s Cà Phê was officially born. I brought my dream to life by honoring a dad whose generosity and love somehow keep on giving, even long after his passing.

I often find myself looking toward the front door, half-expecting to see him walk in. I think he would have loved the bold, chocolatey depth of our Vietnamese coffee, perhaps nursing a cup while sitting and reading a book. I can almost see him there, finally surrounded by the community I always wanted for him, leaning in to trade stories with the regulars as if he’d been part of the neighborhood for years.

The Daily Grind

Running both Larry’s locations was exhausting. I managed accounts, checked inventory, scheduled staff, mixed drinks, and handled opening and closing tasks. At home, I attended to my cat and girlfriend, who missed me after long days. I struggled to balance work and personal life, often feeling overwhelmed.

Customer Connections

In a service-oriented business, welcoming everyone with a smile is essential. Customers are like friends; their visits keep the business alive. Community connections are vital for success. Smiling got harder for me when I wasn’t feeling confident in the longevity of the cafes.

Taking Care of Others

In addition to serving customers, I had over ten team members to look after. After long days, I prioritized my girlfriend and cat, neglecting my own needs. I felt too exhausted to engage in activities that would benefit my mental and physical health.

Dangerous Habits

I developed a habit of drinking after work and vaping throughout the day to cope. Often, I skipped meals and relied on coffee and vaping, which heightened my anxiety.

 The Loneliness

Wearing many hats made me feel isolated. I didn’t know who to ask for help and often dealt with everything alone, leading to loneliness and anxiety. My worries about the business caused significant stress and eventually depression.

A Challenging Winter

Every winter, I experience seasonal affective disorder (SAD) and holiday blues. The cold weather and snowstorms reduced foot traffic to the business, adding to the stress. I was also getting ready to leave both locations for the first time for a cruise trip I had planned several months ago. On top of this, my girlfriend’s parents were coming to stay with us before we all left together for our trip, which made me anxious about hosting them in our small apartment.

Physical Signs of Stress

A week before their arrival, I experienced tightness in my shoulder, which I attributed to stress. I noticed red spots on my back after using a heating pad, but the tightness persisted, signaling that my mind was taking a toll on my body. The third morning, I started to feel a little burning, tingling, and itching on my back and chest. I went to the ER, hoping to get something before I got really sick, before my cruise. The doctor looked at my rash and immediately said I had shingles.

The next few days, the red rashes turned into blisters. I was taking meds for it, and also worried about my girlfriend’s parents coming in a few days. They are older, and I didn’t want them to catch shingles. I learned that blister fluid can cause chickenpox, and I don’t want that for anyone. So I wore a few layers of clothes for a few weeks until the blisters dried up.

Survival

In December 2025, business at both locations slowed significantly due to the upcoming holidays, economic conditions, consumer confidence at its lowest in a very long time, and cold weather. I stayed up all night crunching numbers while my girlfriend was sleeping. I realized that if the sales continue for several months, we might go bankrupt. That was the most stressful moment of my career life, or in life. My brain was in survival mode; I slept for like an hour or two most nights for two weeks. I knew I needed sleep to rest my brain so I could have a clearer mind to find ways to stay afloat during the holidays and winter months. My brain didn’t shut off, and I was MAD at it. So I turned to the vape, and I was just on my phone doing research.

To keep the business afloat, I needed to work more and forgo paying myself until business picked up again. If it had gotten worse, I might have had to put my personal money into the business. That thought gave me more anxiety because it was my safety net, my rainy-day money. I don’t have parents or siblings I could borrow money from, and asking my friends wasn’t an option. I have never asked anyone for money. Not having money scared me, so my survival instincts took over, and walking away from the business was safe. I was in a hole, but at least I didn’t have to stay in it or dig a deeper one. Getting out on your own was a challenge.

I have never closed a business before, but I learned that walking away from my business was not simple. I was tied to two leases: three years in East Williamsburg and over four in Park Slope. Getting out seemed impossible, and my depression made it even harder to take action or seek help. I often wanted to sleep away the pain. I wanted to hide from people because I was feeling anxious. I was worried that I might have to sell my apartment to live off of until I’m on my two feet again.

Crisis Text Hotline (warning: this part can be too sensitive)

On our flight to Italy to get on our cruise trip, while everyone slept, I grappled with thoughts of losing Larry’s, my investments, and my home. The idea of being homeless, jobless, and alone felt overwhelming. I contemplated suicide to stop all the pain—even wishing for something drastic, like a plane crash. These thoughts haunted me, especially when I was alone. When I was with my girlfriend and family, I tried to act normal, and that was hard because I was with them for two weeks. Eventually, I opened up to my girlfriend and a few friends to seek help. While they couldn’t solve my problems, their support helped me face my struggles.

During the Mediterranean cruise, I often looked at the sea and considered jumping in. Yet seeing my girlfriend peacefully asleep made me want to live for her. I also thought of all the people I know: my family back in Vietnam, my friends, Larry’s community, and Luna (my cat). I thought about how sad they would be if I ended my life.

Praying & Seeking Help

Our trip included visits to various cities, including the Vatican. I’m not religious, but I found myself praying for strength and a sign to guide me through my darkness. I journaled; I wrote down my thoughts. I asked my parents to watch over me and give me strength. And each day, I focused on small tasks, deciding to live one day at a time. When I returned to Brooklyn, I continued to struggle with depression and still wanted to stop the pain. I also still wanted to get better, so I resolved to seek professional help. I found a therapist who helped me create a safety plan.

Having lived with stress, burnout, anxiety, depression, and suicidal thoughts for a while, I knew I needed to step away from the business and how I was living my life. I decided to find someone to take over both of the locations. I initially wanted to keep the Park Slope spot to continue honoring my dad and to have a space for the community to come together, but I knew I needed to focus on my health. Stepping away from Larry’s was one of the hardest decisions I've ever made, and finalizing the paperwork felt like mourning my dad again.

I know he’s proud of what I’ve accomplished in such a short time. I have touched many lives, and the community at Larry’s is something special. I am grateful for the love and kindness I’ve received. I’m grateful to be here with you. I am also proud of myself for continuing to fight, to get better each day, to be able to care, love, and to live the life I choose. What also helped was how many of you have been so understanding and have shown your love and kindness towards me. Thank you!

I have been reconnecting with myself and building myself up daily. If you want to know what I’ve been up to lately, HERE is the update.

A month ago today, I closed the doors of Larry's Cà Phê, the first Vietnamese coffee shop in Brooklyn.

On May 11th, I woke up feeling both sad and relieved that the lights were off at both locations. I hadn’t received any texts from my staff that morning, a first in a long time. Returning to collect my personal belongings and sign the final paperwork made me uneasy: it marked the end of something I had worked so hard for.

To aid my healing journey, I created a plan:

1. Spend two hours a day for the first two weeks finishing work. You’d think that after closing the shop, the work ends, but that’s not true. I still have paying off vendors, payroll for the previous work week, transferring ConEd, and internet providers to new owners, and the list goes on…

2. Going cold turkey on coffee, weed, vaping, and gradually reducing alcohol. These things made me anxious and depressed. It was hard, but it couldn’t be harder than what I went through this past winter.

3. Clean my apartment because there is a lot of stuff I brought back from both locations, so my living space doesn't feel cluttered and I feel more organized.

4. Walk my girlfriend to the subway every morning to spend quality time together and to get out of the apartment.

5. Reintroduce morning exercise, fresh air, sunlight, and eating healthy.

6. Enjoy activities like long walks, running, biking, reading, journaling, and playing with my cat: a lot of alone time with myself.

7. In the third week, I’ll run longer distances and bike around Brooklyn to reconnect with friends.

8. I’ll spend time at both locations handing out Larry's hats to those who pre-ordered them.

These steps have helped me get back to things I used to enjoy, but I know there’s more work to do. My therapist suggested I express my thoughts and feelings into words, which is why I’m on Substack. I no longer pour coffee; I’m pouring out my thoughts.

Thank you for being here with me. Talk to you soon!

As many of you know, the last doors at Larry’s closed on May 10th. To thank you for your support, I want to leave you with something: I will be sharing all our drink recipes here so you can continue to enjoy them at home with your friends and family. They were created for all of us to enjoy. I will also be sharing the stories behind the shop and, eventually, a book I wrote before opening Larry’s.

This is the start of a new chapter for me while I work on my mental health, and I’d love for you to join me on this journey. Subscribe below to stay connected.