They say character is shaped by family. Leadership style is shaped by your bosses. Not by books. Not by courses. But by the way they handle a tense meeting. The way they protect their team when things go wrong. The way they know when to stay silent — and when to speak up. Be great boss.

I’ve met people like that. Not just once — but many times.

University Days

In my third year, I joined a remote working group — and met Anh Duy, brought in to train us in Java.

Before our first session, the director sent a welcome email to everyone. Only one person replied. Anh Duy opened the class with that. We didn’t learn functions, variables, or code that day. We learned: always respond when you receive an email or message — even if it’s just “noted.” A small lesson I’ve passed down to every team I’ve led since.

I was never strong at coding. Design was where I belonged — and I already knew it, taking a design course alongside my IT degree. Anh Duy noticed I seemed somewhere else. At the end of the session, he pulled me aside — not to reprimand me, but to ask what I actually wanted to do. Then he stopped pushing me toward code, and enrolled me in a design course instead. On his own tab.

The foundation I have today — part of it, he built for me.

Later, I got to work alongside him briefly at Hoa Sen University. That’s where I saw another side of him: he never corrected anyone in front of others. He’d find a quiet moment, pull them aside, and guide them through it. The atmosphere was calm, easy — people genuinely looked forward to coming in, even through deadlines and KPIs.

He’s in Australia now.

Nhan corp

I met Boss Binh 1. I actually had two bosses named Binh — so I’ll call this one Boss Binh 1. He wasn’t a designer, but he felt more like an older brother to all of us.

That year, I got into a motorcycle accident on my way to work. Before I knew it, I was surrounded by people from the other driver’s company — aggressive, demanding I pay compensation. I called Boss Binh. He showed up alone, stood his ground against a crowd of agitated strangers, and called the police. It wasn’t until the other company’s director arrived and saw the scene for himself — realizing his employee was at fault — that I was finally let go. Boss Binh took my bike to get repaired. I’d taken a fall and was scraped up all over. The bike wasn’t running right either.

What he did that day taught me something I’ve carried ever since: a manager doesn’t have to be the most technically skilled person in the room. But if they protect their people when it matters — they will always be respected. That kind of protection is a rare strength. Not every manager has it.

Transoft

The company later became Filestring, I think — but that’s where I met Boss Mike. Not a designer, but he had the kind of energy that never runs dry and ideas that kept coming. He was always hunting down design resources for me to read. His product thinking was what shaped the way I look at user flows to this day.

But the story I remember most isn’t about work. On team trips, he’d hang out with everyone like we were all equals — no distance, no hierarchy. Then at night, he’d quietly book his own room.

That’s when it clicked: being close and being on the same level are two different things. A good manager knows when to close the gap — and when to quietly create it again.

He’s in the US now.

Hoa Sen University

Boss Binh 2 came from a Marketing background — a collaborative leader by nature. Strict, but everything he touched delivered results.

The Iron Armor

At first, I was intimidated — even though he’d never once raised his voice at me. Hearing him scold others was enough to make me shrink.

Then came a team outing. He glanced around and asked me quietly: “Have you seen Thảo? She’s seemed a little down lately.”

It hit me like a bolt of lightning — shattering the image of the cold, unapproachable boss I’d carried in my head all this time. He did care. He just kept it wrapped in a layer of iron armor.

Over time, he let it go — piece by piece.

The Story of 10,000 Admission Guides

Once, I made a typo on the cover of an admission guide. Over 10,000 copies printed.

I went straight to my boss to report it and apologize. The weight of it pressed far heavier on him than on me — reprinting that volume would have blown the budget entirely. Instead of the scolding I expected, he went quiet, then said: “What matters is that you caught it and owned it. We can be more careful next time. There’s another error on a different page that also needs a correction — we’ll fix both together.”

I could have stayed quiet. I could have blamed the content team for sending the wrong copy. But owning it immediately opened the door to making the final product better. We spent over a week staying late, manually inserting correction slips into the right pages of every single copy.

My hands were tired. But my conscience was clear — lighter than any deadline I’d ever crossed.

What I admired most about him wasn’t his strictness. It was his ability to recognize his own blind spots and work on them, quietly, every day. From the iron armor at the start — to the big brother the whole team leaned on by the end.

He’s in the US now.

VNG

I finally had a designer as a boss when I moved to VNG. Boss Đỗ Thái Thanh — a charismatic leader. Younger than me, but talented enough to earn my full respect.

He ran internal workshops every weekend. Everyone shared knowledge, and he taught drawing himself. I’m no artist — so when he asked everyone to submit a piece they’d drawn, I hesitated before sending a photo of a simple flower branch. Everyone else had beautiful character illustrations. He looked through them all, then started teaching from the very basics of figure construction — no judgment, no comparison. One glance at each piece, and he already knew exactly what each person was missing.

He also always carried a sketchbook to fill the gaps between waiting.

What I took away wasn’t just how to draw. It was this: truly skilled people never stop practicing — and they lift others up through that very practice.

Mirae Asset

I left Saigon, came back two years later, and joined Boss Viễn’s team. He had an emotional steadiness I rarely see — almost never rattled, never reactive. The kind of manager who’d quietly take the hit himself so his team members could come out looking good. Which also meant better performance reviews. Which also meant raises.

Three things about him stayed with me.

The Words That Hired Me

During the interview, he said something along the lines of: “Honestly, I already have everything I need to live comfortably. But something inside keeps pushing me — I still want to build products that mean something to society.”

I sat there thinking: that’s me too. I’m still full of energy. Still hungry to build things that matter.

Action Over Words

Around that same time, I hit a rough patch — the kind you don’t want to talk about with anyone. He saw it on my face without me saying a word. Then quietly sent me a link to a YouTube channel — a designer full of the kind of energy I needed most. That channel was what kept me anchored through it.

He never asked. He just knew — and acted.

The Coffee Machine in the Corner

He bought a coffee machine for the office. Anyone who made a cup would drop whatever they felt like into a small box beside it. At year’s end, the money was pooled — sent to flood victims, or whatever cause had come up that needed support.

Under his leadership, the team was genuinely one. Dev and QA are legendary rivals in most places. Not ours.

Then he moved to Australia.

Binh Dan Hospital

I came to Binh Dan Hospital as a freelance designer for a few events — and that’s where I met Boss Nguyễn Hồ Vĩnh Phước. Urologist. Head of Social Work. MC. Medical conference interpreter. Those are just the four roles I know of. There are probably more.

The Weight of the Work

During the lead-up to Binh Dan Hospital’s 70th anniversary, I felt it firsthand — the pressure, and the kind of dedication that doesn’t clock out. To finish a 500-page commemorative book on a brutal timeline, some nights we pushed through to 3am. Some nights we didn’t go home at all. I got back one evening to find my cat Poc in a panic — convinced I’d abandoned her.

I was freelance, so the pressure hit me hardest in the weeks before each event. But for Boss Phước and his team, that pressure never really let up. Late nights weren’t the exception — they were just the job.

Watching him, I saw the kind of professional I want to be. Someone who pours themselves fully into work they believe in. I asked myself quietly: am I living that way too? For me, the answer is yes. I didn’t choose UI/UX because it was safe. I chose it because I can give it everything — and find meaning in what I make.

A few days at that office also taught me something worth passing on: if you ever want to support patients in genuine need, go straight to the Social Work department. They know each patient’s situation personally — and they’ll make sure your help reaches the right person.

None of my mentors ever stood at the front of a classroom. They taught me through the way they lived, the way they worked, and the way they treated the people around them. I don’t know what the next boss will teach me. But I know I’m ready for a new chapter.