My Story: Beyond the Résumé
- Tram Phan
- May 11
- 8 min read
Updated: May 13
For most of my life, I kept my personal story separate from my professional life.
Compartmentalization was a survival skill I mastered early on to help me assimilate.
But stories have weight, and what we bury has a way of resurfacing.
Over time, I’ve come to understand that the walls I’ve built are not sustainable.
My story is messy & unfinished, with chapters I’m still learning how to tell. But I’m sharing it anyway because the parts I used to hide are the very ones that now give my work any sense of depth and purpose.
Writing this has been a cathartic process, bringing clarity to how my personal history has shaped my purpose.
So if this helps even one other person feel seen, then it will have been worth it.
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I grew up as the eldest daughter of Asian immigrants, and like many, faced the weight of impossible expectations.
When our family moved from Nha Trang, Vietnam to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, I was only 7 years old entering the first grade.
My childhood disappeared overnight.
I became the caretaker, translator, and fixer.
My parents worked crazy hours to make ends meet. When they were home, they fought over money. This was routine.
When they were gone, we were entrusted with neighborhood sitters. I was taken care of as much as I was sexually violated. At that age, I didn’t have the language for what was happening, so I buried it away like a bad dream. I never told a soul, until my mid-twenties in a casual conversation with my mom. Her facial expressions signaled something of “shock”, and then the subject is immediately changed. We never addressed it again.
This was our relationship in a nutshell.
My mother was a nail salon owner and a "Final Boss" level of intense, which made our home an emotionally volatile place.
My father was angry through most of my childhood, which I now understand was likely fueled by undiagnosed chronic sleep apnea, hard labor, and well, my mom. He was a specialty door carpenter.
They were both stuck in survival mode, battling chronic stress, depression, and what I can now name as bipolar and narcissistic patterns. At the time, we didn’t have healthcare or even the language to address our struggles around mental health.
Navigating unstable adult figures and an abusive home environment at a young age was a double-edged sword. On one hand, I developed a high level of resilience and intuition, always picking up on others’ needs and “energies” — an asset in some ways. On the other hand, I inherited a crippling level of anxiety that has evolved into a neurodivergence, of sorts. I walked on eggshells to express my needs out of fear of physical violence, and later struggled to confidently articulate personal ideas in front of authority figures.
What I lacked verbally, I overcompensated for in written and visual communication.
I imagined. I drew. I created. As a way to dissociate.
In middle school, I was diagnosed with ADD, which in hindsight would've stemmed from inadequate play and activity as a child. We grew up in a sketchy low-income neighborhood that kept us indoors most days.
When I wasn’t dissociating, I journaled.
I journaled every day through grade school, often writing about my need to leave home as soon as I could. That determination eventually led to a chapter of living out of my car and couch-surfing through college. During that time, my roommate and best friend, Kristi, encouraged me to reconnect with my roots in art and design. She also played a big part in pulling me out of my shell.
My glow-up from a withdrawn, socially awkward nerd to a full-blown social butterfly happened fast.
Looking back, much of that sudden confidence was fueled by an unhealthy relationship with alcohol—something I then struggled with through most of my twenties.
After two years of trial and error and nearly four different majors at LSU, I finally found my way to the School of Interior Design. For the rest of college, I juggled three part-time jobs to barely graduate debt-free before landing an internship & eventually full-time role at Sauviac and Dang Architects in Baton Rouge.
Much of my trauma remained unpacked until about nine years ago, when three of my close friends (including Kristi) passed away. Within 4 months of relocating to Austin for a startup job, I was laid off. That same week, my former partner broke up with me.
By this point, I had no support system, no community, and no net worth, in a strange new city that seemed to reject me at every turn.
Though I had survived a prior suicide attempt in my freshmen year of college, this moment hurt worse.
This was my new rock bottom.
It took everything in me (plus four Brené Brown books and a library of others, most of which I share at the end of this post) to walk myself down to Uncle Billy’s, a local restaurant where I occasionally joined their beer runs. I waited tables, something I hadn’t done since college, then went home and cried myself to sleep for weeks. I surrendered fully to my faith and an undefined higher power.
Through that season, spirituality found its way into every crevice of my life.
I gave up alcohol and caffeine, cold turkey.
And while I was growing on the inside, the environment I was in made it clear I couldn’t stay.
One evening, the restaurant manager proudly yelled at one of my hosts, “fucking faggot,” for stuttering to answer a question. This was the brutal restaurant culture I was all too familiar with. That week, I put in my notice.
In a somewhat misguided effort to grow thicker skin, I also made the decision to trade in my hyper-empath superpowers in favor of logic and reason. Historically, that emotional sensitivity has "paralyzed" me more than it has led me to action. Shifting my lens from I/ENFP to I/ENTJ equipped me with novel tools and options for alternative paths forward.
I call it “misguided” now, because I’ve since come to understand that both are necessary, and learning when to let each lens lead has been pivotal.
That’s the beauty of the human species: we're built to evolve.
With these new lenses, I tried door-to-door sales, which introduced me to the fascinating world of sales psychology. That led to a couple short stints in retail, and eventually, a new chapter at the Barre3 studio downtown Austin. For the first time in a long time, I experienced good intentional leadership. Shoutout to Tara Heavner and Kim Goldberg.
At Barre3, I quickly learned that mental wellness starts with physical wellness. I found community and healing through the power of movement and became more involved in Austin’s health and wellness community including the "Future Frontiers" community - all of which gave me the confidence to return to the design industry.
Shortly after, I joined S.Tipton Studio, where my then, supervisor Erin D’Alessandro launched my career forward. She was logical, organized, knowledgeable, patient, and advocated for me in ways I hadn’t experienced before, much less in this industry.
That experience reminded me what it felt like to belong in AEC again.
I locked in for almost 6 years until the culture shifted.
Because home was not traditionally the safe place it was meant to be, I’ve always gravitated towards alternative outlets for “home” — my dog, my friends, a good concert, being on the road in my car blasting music, my partner, my community, and especially my work.
People often think that interior design is a cush job because affording design at all is seen as a luxury.
There were also the sometimes glamorous perks.
While that might have been true for some people, for me, it was therapy. It was the only way I had control over my environment and how I interacted with it. How I injected personality and purpose into an otherwise meaningless matrix.
In a profession built around health, safety, wellness, and inclusivity, it also often felt disheartening to see those values not always reflected in the professional cultures meant to champion them.
At times, it felt like an exclusive, members-only circle that I was always on the outside of, navigating subtle biases and microaggressions on countless fronts.
For most of my life, I’ve existed in the minority as:
the only woman in male-dominated meetings
the only BIPOC in an otherwise homogenous office
someone too “green” among veterans
someone too Americanized in my own motherland
someone too complicated or cynical to easily blend in
Call me a late bloomer, but it’s only recently that I’ve accepted this as a superpower. To unapologetically own the things that make me “different.”
To that end, I’ve made it my personal mission to make “community” more accessible to those “others” — the outsiders and lone wolves who never quite belonged either.
As Maya Angelou said it best:
“You only are free when you realize you belong no place — you belong every place — no place at all. The price is high. The reward is great.”
At this point in my life, I feel less inclined to fit in or belong anywhere. I choose to put in work where it matters to me, surround myself with energy that inspires me, and collaborate with partners who care and share my mission, vision, or values in any measure.
Today, I’m a small business owner providing commercial interior design and planning services, advocating for experiential play and trauma-informed leadership, and, in my own way, helping to pave the path for other young professionals on their journey through AEC. Most may even consider me an "Austinite" now.
I’m grateful that mental health is now a bigger conversation and that resources are more abundant for this younger generation and the overall first generation immigrant community.
Having spent the better part of my adult life working toward healing, I’m finally in a place where I can effectively show up for the work I love.
Sharing my story has been a major step toward that, and one of the heavier things I’ve had the pleasure of setting down.
In a big literal and metaphorical way, it's been a homecoming for me.
If you made it this far, thank you. From the bottom of my heart. For holding space.
I don’t take it lightly.
I hope, someday, I’ll have the honor of hearing your story too.
Warmly,
Tram
P.S. If my darkest seasons had a bookshelf, these would be the dog-eared, well-loved titles I always come back to. Borrow freely.
Rising Strong by Brené Brown (2015) My gateway drug of self-help. How to rise after failure, setbacks, or heartbreak.
Braving the Wilderness by Brené Brown (2017)
Finding belonging without losing yourself in the process.
The Gifts of Imperfection by Brené Brown (2010)
Embracing your authentic self and letting go of who you think you're supposed to be.
Dare to Lead by Brené Brown (2018)
A guide for courageous leadership rooted in vulnerability and empathy.
Play: How It Shapes the Brain, Opens the Imagination, and Invigorates the Soul by Stuart Brown, MD (with Christopher Vaughan) (2009)
A compelling case for play as a biological necessity and a key to creativity, resilience, and joy.
What Got You Here Won’t Get You There by Marshall Goldsmith (with Mark Reiter) (2007)
How to spot and shift the subtle habits that can stall your growth.
The Big Leap: Conquer Your Hidden Fear and Take Life to the Next Level by Gay Hendricks (2009)
Explores the “Upper Limit Problem” and how self-sabotage blocks us from living in our Zone of Genius.
The Power of Habit: Why We Do What We Do in Life and Business by Charles Duhigg (2012)
Explains the science of habit formation and how rewiring small behaviors leads to massive change.
Furiously Happy: A Funny Book About Horrible Things by Jenny Lawson (2015)
I've never laughed harder. An honest and raw exploration of mental illness, joy, and sometimes both.
Deep Work by Cal Newport (2016) Why focused work is the new superpower and how to do more of it.
Tao Te Ching by Lao Tzu, translated by Stephen Mitchell (1988)
Ancient wisdom staple for modern chaos.
Breath: The New Science of a Lost Art by James Nestor (2020) Transformative insight into something we do 25,000 times a day.
Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives by David Eagleman (2009)
The only fiction book on this list & a wildly imaginative collection of short stories exploring alternate afterlives.
Jesus Calling: Enjoying Peace in His Presence by Sarah Young (2004) Daily affirmations written as if from the voice of a high power.