Early in the new year I’ll take a moment to tell you this story—something to read for fun while we’re all suffering from post–Tết blues and diving into year-start deadlines.
A few years ago was the first time I heard about vision boards, when I saw some colleagues at OnMic getting ready to make theirs for the new year. For any over-40 souls who don’t know: a vision board is a board full of images, quotes, symbols, or anything else that represents your wishes, dreams, and goals for the year.
If “first stroke of the pen” at Lunar New Year is a brick Nokia, then a vision board is an iPhone 17 Pro Max. Just so you get the picture.
After my staff explained it, I broke out in a sweat remembering something from 16 years ago—my first year at university—when I skipped class and rode my motorbike from Gò Vấp to District 6 to hear my first-ever “pitch” about a vision board.
It started with a classmate I’ll call Đ., who studied IT. Đ. was kind and easy to get along with. One day he found me and said, “Khánh, you have to come to this place with me.” He was very persuasive: this opportunity wasn’t for everyone, but he wouldn’t say more. I hated skipping class because our school took attendance with fingerprint (miss 2.5 sessions and you’re barred from the exam), but the idea of an exclusive chance was too tempting.
The meet-up looked like an old factory, with a sign that said HƯNG THỜI ĐẠI. Đ. said the opportunity wasn’t for everyone, but that day there were about a thousand people.
Đ. met me and led me into a shabby hall, with a stage that felt like a lottery draw at a fair. A bald speaker took the stage and gave an inspiring talk about how he’d made hundreds of billions; the whole hall chanted “success, success, success.” Before I could figure out what was going on, Đ. turned to me and said: “I’m going to build my career here!”
After that opener, newcomers like me were taken in turn to meet “team leaders”—each at a table, in suits and ties, sweating in the heat. There were about 50 tables.
That was the moment I was “enlightened” about the vision board.
The team leader greeted me and the first thing he said was that I looked like Cường Đô La (?!). Then he asked me a string of questions about my goals and the meaning of life—it felt like something out of How to Win Friends—and launched into the kind of wisdom you still see everywhere on TikTok. At 18 it was pretty intense.
After the lecture he pulled out an A3 notebook, the kind with small grid lines and brownish paper and a stiff checkered cover, and said “today I’ll show you my vision and goals.” On the first page he’d written “The vision of [his name]” in blue ballpoint in a calligraphy style, with flowers and stars—like a yearbook from middle school.
Then he went through it like a TED Talk, flipping page after page:
“I will build a 1000-billion project here”—with cut-out pictures of buildings from magazines and the words “1000 billion” in the same calligraphy.
“My wedding will be in a stadium for 1000 people, with 100 supercars for the bride”—more cut-outs from magazines; he really liked the number 1000. He hadn’t pasted in a picture of the bride (the one he wanted) yet.
“I won’t have to work; I’ll just sit at a resort on Monday morning and still have passive income”—with a picture of some resort. At least there was no picture of him.
After 45 minutes of him walking me through his vision boards, my shirt was soaked. He wrapped up with: “So what’s your vision? Do you want me to help you design and achieve it?”
In marketing terms I was still at “aware”—I’d only just heard of it and wasn’t considering trying it—but he’d jumped straight to the last step.
He started telling me about the “system” business plan and how I’d make billions fast, pointed at the watch he was wearing (I still remember it was a Red Ant), and said that when I joined I’d get one too—I just had to put in 4 million to join the system and buy the first batch of products (what products I’ve forgotten—supplements, cancer-curing bras, water filters, etc.).
“Are you ready?” he asked eagerly.
“Not yet,” I said.
His face changed a little—he hadn’t expected to spend nearly an hour without converting me.
I really regretted my answer, because he did two more laps on the vision board and the system business, and another 30 minutes went by.
He asked again: “Are you ready?”
“Still not yet.”
I’d forgotten about Đ. He’d been sitting next to me the whole time; the team leader was furious and Đ. looked embarrassed for having brought such a hopeless case. Đ. had to jump in and try to convince me himself.
The third time, the leader insisted: “This opportunity isn’t for everyone. You look like Cường Đô La—you’re not going to pass this up. Are you ready?”
His words touched my heart; it felt like I’d found the truth. In the end I made my decision: “Still not yet, sir.”
Three times was too much. He flipped the table.
Fuming, he sent me to another table to meet another team leader, still hoping someone else could convert me.
I got up, pretended to go to the bathroom, and left—and that was the end of my vision board pitch experience.
After that I sometimes ran into classmates wearing that Red Ant watch and thought, oh well. A few times I wanted to ask to see their vision boards, but I was afraid they’d take me back to District 6, so I didn’t.
As for Đ.—we didn’t talk for a year. Then I bumped into him on campus. After we said hi I asked, “Are you still building your career at Hưng Thời Đại?” He gave a dry laugh and walked off. I haven’t seen him since, not even on social media.
By now you’ve probably figured out who the “godfather” of the vision board is (joking—from what I’ve read, vision boards go back to when humans drew on cave walls to show they were serious about succeeding at hunting).
One thing I still wonder: do I really look like Cường Đô La?
