Looking for my old self in the humid streets of Hanoi with a toddler

There was a time when my entire life fit into a 45-liter backpack. I remember walking through the narrow alleys of Hanoi in my early twenties, feeling like the humidity was just part of the adventure. Back then, a five-dollar hostel and a bowl of street pho were all I needed to feel successful. But this past June, as I stood in the middle of Noi Bai International Airport with 26-month-old Ajin clinging to my leg and a mountain of suitcases, that version of myself felt like a stranger. I wanted to show Ajin the world I loved, but the heavy air of Vietnam in June immediately reminded me that my world has changed quite a bit since 2015.

Leaving Haneul behind was the first hurdle. He is six now, and his anxiety has only grown with age. Even the sight of a suitcase makes him retreat under the sofa, his little white Maltese tail tucked firmly between his legs. Because of his patellar luxation, I worry about him jumping or slipping when he gets excited, so asking my mother to watch him is always a heavy request. I felt a pang of guilt as we pulled out of the driveway, seeing his small face in the window, but I told myself this trip was important. I wanted to bridge the gap between the girl I was and the mother I am now. Little did I know, the streets of Hanoi were about to teach me a very loud, very sweaty lesson about that gap.

The 86 bus dream that died in five minutes

My plan was simple, or so I thought. I wanted to take the 86 bus from the airport to the Old Quarter. It is a local staple, cheap and efficient, and it felt like the 'right' way to start a real Hanoi trip. But Ajin was already tired from the flight, and the humidity hit us like a physical weight the moment we stepped outside the terminal. I tried to navigate the stroller toward the bus stop, but the wheels kept catching on the uneven pavement. Every time the stroller jolted, Ajin let out a sharp cry of frustration.

When the bus finally pulled up, it wasn't the low-floor easy-access vehicle I had pictured in my head. It was a standard bus with high steps. I looked at the stroller, then at the bags, then at my husband, and then at the crowd of people pushing to get on. I tried to fold the stroller with one hand while holding Ajin, but the heat made my hands slick with sweat, and I fumbled. People were staring, and for a moment, I felt that familiar sting of 'mom guilt'—the feeling that I was forcing my child into a struggle just to satisfy my own nostalgia. We didn't even get on the bus. We just stood there on the curb, defeated by the sheer logistics of it all.

My husband just said let's book the Grab

I was still trying to justify waiting for the next bus, complaining about how overpriced the taxis were, when my husband reached his limit. He looked at my red face and Ajin's sweaty hair plastered to her forehead. My husband just said let's book the Grab. He was right. He didn't even wait for me to argue; he already had the app open. Within three minutes, a clean, air-conditioned sedan pulled up right in front of us.

As soon as we stepped into the car, the silence and the cold air felt like a sanctuary. Ajin stopped crying almost instantly and began staring out the window at the endless stream of motorbikes. I realized then that my insistence on a 'budget' experience was actually costing us our sanity. In my 20s, I had nothing but time. Now, with a toddler, time and temperament are the most expensive commodities we have. The 15 dollars we spent on that ride was the best investment of the entire trip. I watched the city blur past, the familiar sights of Hanoi returning to me, but this time from behind a tinted, cooled window. It wasn't how I used to do it, but it was how I needed to do it now.

The impossible geometry of Hanoi sidewalks

If you have ever been to the Old Quarter, you know the sidewalks are not actually for walking. They are for parking motorbikes, selling bun cha, and washing dishes in plastic tubs. Navigating this with a stroller is like playing a high-stakes game of Tetris where the pieces don't fit. I spent most of our first afternoon lifting the stroller over curbs and dodging steaming pots of broth. My arms were shaking by the time we reached the cathedral.

Ajin, to her credit, was fascinated by the chaos. She kept pointing at the colorful fruit vendors and the dogs lounging in the shade of the shops. It reminded me of Haneul, and I wondered if he would have hated the noise or if he would have been brave like he is when he protects Ajin from the vacuum cleaner at home. But the physical toll on me was real. By the time we reached a small cafe near the Train Street, I was ready to give up on the 'sightseeing' part of the trip entirely. I sat down, ordered a massive watermelon juice for Ajin, and just watched her. She didn't care about the architecture or the history; she just liked the way the cold juice felt in her throat and the sound of the train horns in the distance.

What we lost in budget, we gained in smiles

By the third day, we had completely scrapped the original itinerary. We stopped trying to walk everywhere. We stopped looking for the absolute cheapest places to eat and started looking for places with high chairs and fans. My budget spreadsheet was a mess—we were spending nearly double what I had originally planned. But the shift in energy was palpable. Instead of being stressed about the next move, we were present in the moment.

We spent an hour just sitting by Hoan Kiem Lake, letting Ajin watch the locals do their morning exercises. We spent more money on Grab rides than I care to admit, but those rides saved us from countless meltdowns. I realized that the 'value' of a trip isn't measured in how much money you save, but in how many moments you actually enjoy. When Ajin laughed as a street vendor gave her a small paper fan, or when she fell asleep peacefully in the back of a car after a long morning, those were the wins. The old backpacker in me might have winced at the cost, but the mom in me was finally breathing again.

Coming home to the familiar chaos

Walking through our front door in Seoul felt like a different kind of relief. Haneul didn't greet us with a bark; he just stood there, blinking his big eyes, waiting for us to come to him. Once he realized it was us, he did his little 'Maltese spin' and headed straight for Ajin, licking her shins as if to make sure she was still the same person. Pudding, our Munchkin cat, watched the whole reunion from the top of the bookshelf, her short legs tucked under her, looking completely indifferent but somehow managing to jump down and sit exactly three inches away from us five minutes later.

I looked at the mountain of laundry and the sand still stuck in the wheels of the stroller. I thought about the heat in Hanoi and the way my heart sank when the bus pulled away without us. Was it a successful trip? I'm still not sure. We saw the things I wanted to see, but through a haze of exhaustion and logistical hurdles. My husband and I are already debating the next one. He wants to stick to Jeju Island where we can take our own car and maybe even bring Haneul along. I'm still looking at flights to Da Nang, wondering if maybe a resort would be the 'smarter' choice next time. Or maybe I'm just not ready to admit that the backpacker version of me is officially on a very long hiatus. I still don't know if we'll go back to Vietnam next year, or if we'll just stay home and let Haneul reclaim his spot on the sofa.