Letter for My Daughters

Content warning: this story contains a short description of sexual harassment.

Before I tell this story, I want to bow my head in thanks to your Ông Ngoại—my father. He was not gentle in his teaching. Each morning before school and each evening after dinner, he called me out into the courtyard. My bare feet pressed against the cool cement, my arms trembling as I held a stance for what felt like forever. The sharp thwack of a bamboo stick against the ground snapped whenever I lost focus. My muscles ached, my hands blistered, but he would only say, “Lại nữa, con. Again.”

At the time, I thought it was punishment. I didn’t know it was love. Ten years of sweat and stubborn discipline carved something into me deeper than bruises or sore bones. He was teaching me to stand firm, to see danger before it struck, to know that even a small body can hold great strength if the spirit inside refuses to bow.

I didn’t realize then that he was preparing me for a night when the lessons of kung fu would no longer be just drills, but the thin line between fear and survival.

Tokyo, the end of summer

My daughter, you and I were wandering through a city of bright lights and tangled trains, learning to read the maps as if they were riddles. On one ride, you told me about London, where you once visited a friend. You described men hiding cameras to take secret photos of girls, and how some trains were reserved only for women.

“Maybe they have that here too,” you said.

I asked you, “And what if they don’t? Would you feel unprotected?”

You nodded.

So I told you: “I never wait for the system to protect me. Because if I do, I’ll always depend on others. Thanks to your Ông Ngoại, I learned early to protect myself.”

And as I said that, I realized I had been asked the same question once not with words, but in the silence of a dark alley when I was fifteen. Let me tell you about that night.

The Dark Alley

I was fifteen.

The schoolyard had emptied, and the last slant of daylight was slipping away. I walked home through a narrow alley. Shadows pressed in, the kind that make silence feel heavier.

A man appeared, walking straight toward me. He looked thirty, maybe older—bigger, stronger. His right shoulder rolled forward with power, his left leg dragged just slightly. My mind made its calculations automatically: weight, height, weaknesses, distance. My father had trained me for this.

Ten steps ahead, I noticed a stone—two pounds, enough to use. In my bag, I remembered the long, sharp scissors I carried for school.

Then he smiled—a grin that curled my stomach—and pulled his pants down.

The world shrank. My pulse hammered against my ribs.

In one motion, I leapt sideways, scooped up the stone, scissors in the other hand. My voice exploded out of me, raw and fierce:

“Pull your thing back up—or I’ll cut it off!”

I stepped closer—one, two, three. My mind stayed sharp: if he lunged, I’d strike his throat, sweep his weak leg, finish it with the blade.

For the first time, he looked uncertain. Then he yanked his pants up and bolted into the shadows.

When he was gone, my knees trembled. Sweat ran down my back even though the night air was cool. My hands shook so hard I could barely keep hold of the scissors but I refused to drop them. Fear was in my body, but my voice still rose, louder that the dark:

“Do you think I’m scared of your elephant trunk? Try again, and you’ll lose it for good!”

My hands were shaking, but I held steady. When I left that alley, I told everyone I met what I had seen. Fear wasn’t meant to be swallowed—it was meant to be spoken, so others could be safe too.

My daughter, this is why I tell you: danger is everywhere—in alleys, on trains, even in places that look safe. We cannot predict when it will come.

That night, I wasn’t a victim. I was my father’s daughter. And one day, I hope you’ll carry that same fire strength not just in your hands, but in your heart.

It was just me, my body, my training, and my will. If not for kung fu, I might have been another girl’s whispered warning.

The system didn’t save me. Kung fu did.

That’s why I believe every girl should learn to defend herself—not just for health, not just for strength, but so it becomes part of who you are. A habit. A way of walking in the world with your head high and your heart steady.

Courage isn’t the absence of fear. Courage is knowing fear—then stepping forward anyway.