Rebirth: The Journey of Nguyễn Jade Lan to Regain Health and Confidence

The apartment on the 17th floor of Capitol Hill, Seattle, was always dark, even though it was only six in the evening outside. Rain smeared the large window, each stream of water sliding down like scratches across the skin on Nguyễn Jade Lan’s face—skin she hadn’t bothered to really look at in a long time. The smell of cold coffee lingering in the paper cup since morning mixed with the musty odor of the carpet that hadn’t been cleaned since last winter. She curled up on the gray sofa, a thin blanket loosely draped over her shoulders, her heavy sighs blending with the rain. The only light came from her phone screen, casting a pale glow on the face of a 42-year-old woman who once walked into downtown boardrooms confidently in red heels and MAC Ruby Woo lipstick.

Three and a half years earlier, everything collapsed at once. Her ex-husband, David, signed the divorce papers in a Bellevue law office just fifteen minutes after she walked in, leaving her with a mortgage still unpaid and nearly six figures in credit card debt. The week after that, the software company where she worked as a Marketing Director announced a 40% staff reduction across North America. Her name was on the first list. That same night, her mother in Saigon suffered a stroke. She passed away ten days later, and Lan didn’t make it in time to see her one last time. She flew back for the burial and returned to Seattle with a black suitcase and swollen eyes that had run out of tears.

Since then, Lan lived like a ghost inside her own apartment. She did small freelance jobs, writing content for startups late at night, sleeping during the day, eating frozen pizza and bagged salad from QFC. Sunscreen, serums, sheet masks—everything got shoved into a corner of the fridge behind an expired Sriracha bottle from 2022. Her hair fell out in clumps, her skin turned ashy, hormonal acne lined her jaw, and her cheeks sagged so much she had to lift her skin to see her teeth while brushing. She avoided mirrors, avoided friends, avoided light.

Linh, her best friend from University of Washington, texted her once a month. “Jade, coffee? I miss you.” Lan read the message, left it there, and replied days later with a sad cat sticker. She was afraid of seeing anyone. Afraid they’d see what she had become—a shadow of the woman who once hosted 500-guest events at the Grand Hyatt Seattle and spoke on stage about “personal branding for aging millennials.”

Until one October evening in 2024, while lying on the sofa mindlessly scrolling through TikTok, a video appeared. A Vietnamese woman around 45, smiling brightly in front of a mirror. Caption: “I found myself again after divorce and depression thanks to Strongbody AI.” Lan smirked and almost scrolled past, but her finger paused. Something in that woman’s eyes felt real—not the fake “before-after miracle” type. She tapped the link.

The Strongbody AI webpage was surprisingly simple—no flashy banners, no over-edited model photos, just one sentence: “You’re not alone. We listen with both heart and medical expertise.” Lan filled out the long survey—nearly 20 minutes—about her irregular cycles since severe stress, the 22 pounds she’d gained in three years, the sleepless nights filled with anxiety and a sense of being useless. She submitted the form, half skeptical, half desperate.

Thirty minutes later, her phone buzzed. A text from a +1 number:

“Hi chị Jade Lan, I’m Dr. Hạnh, dermatologist & aesthetic endocrinology specialist in Orange County, California. I just read your story. Would you like a 15-minute chat? The first session is free.”

Lan stared at the message until the screen dimmed. She didn’t think she would reply. But her fingers typed anyway: “Can we talk now?”

The video call lasted almost an hour and a half. Dr. Hạnh wore a white coat, hair tied in a low ponytail, her Southern Vietnamese accent warm and soothing. She didn’t rush to prescribe anything; she simply asked questions that made Lan feel truly seen for the first time in years:

“When was the last time you genuinely smiled at yourself in the mirror?”

“How many hours do you actually sleep each night?”

“When you say you feel ugly, what is it that you’re most afraid of?”

Lan cried. Real tears—the first in almost three years. She told everything: about her mother, about David, about the job loss, about once being a “strong independent woman” now reduced to ashes.

Dr. Hạnh listened without interrupting, then gently said:

“Chị, I won’t promise to turn you into a 25-year-old hot girl. I promise to walk with you so you can find the woman who once owned her life. We start with your skin, because skin is where you can see change every single day.”

Hạnh sent her a personalized “Dermatology Journal” on Strongbody AI—not a generic checklist, but a plan tailored to Lan’s irregular cycles, Seattle’s rainy season, and her predicted cortisol based on the assessment. The first week had only three simple tasks:

Wash your face twice a day with a gentle cleanser (CeraVe Hydrating Cleanser from Target).

Apply mineral sunscreen every morning even when it rains (EltaMD UV Clear).

Drink two liters of water, portioned into four glass bottles on your desk.

“If you do it three days in a row, I’ll send you a gold star sticker,” Hạnh texted with a cheeky smile emoji.

Lan scoffed at her reflection but did it anyway. The faint scent of the cleanser reminded her of her mother’s soap in Saigon. She took pictures of her skin every night like a child doing homework. On a night when her acne flared badly after three cups of coffee and working until 4 a.m., she texted at 2:14 a.m.: “I want to give up. My skin looks awful.”

The reply came instantly—even though it was 1:14 a.m. in California: “Breathe, chị. I’m waking up now. This breakout is cortisol, not your fault. Tomorrow just keep coffee to one cup. You’re not alone.”

But Strongbody AI wasn’t perfect. One week, the server was down and she couldn’t upload photos for three days. Some days, Hạnh was in emergency surgery and replied 12 hours late; Lan cried alone, thinking she was being abandoned again. Sometimes the app suggested products that were sold out everywhere in Seattle, forcing her to drive to Bellevue for a serum. These limitations made Lan realize: tools are just tools. The one holding her hand was Dr. Hạnh—and most importantly, she herself was the one deciding whether she washed her face each morning.

By month three, Lan started exercising again—just 10 minutes of yoga each morning from Move With Nicole, recommended by the Strongbody AI women-over-38 support group. The chat group had 42 women sharing bare-face photos, belly fat, hair loss, painful period days—no filters, no sales pitches. One woman in Texas (47) shared her skin after cutting sugar for 30 days; another woman in New York (41) celebrated her hair growth after zinc supplements. Lan posted her bare-face photo for the first time, heart pounding. Ten minutes later: 28 heart reactions and one comment: “Your skin is glowing, chị! Keep going!”

Then came the big incident in January 2025. Lan tried a 20% vitamin C serum from Amazon because it was half-price. The next morning her face was swollen, burning red like a chemical burn, and her upper lip was blistered. Panicked, she sent photos to Hạnh at 6 a.m. Hạnh was on shift but immediately video-called:

“Rinse with warm saline, don’t use any cleanser. I’m prescribing antihistamines and a steroid cream now. Go to Walgreens on Pine Street when they open at 7. You’ll be okay.”

Her skin recovered in eight days instead of developing permanent scars like before. That incident taught her that no matter how fast technology advances, it can’t replace expertise—and her own discipline.

By month five, Lan slipped back into her old black Diane von Furstenberg dress from 2019—the zipper slid up easily this time. She dyed her hair hazelnut brown, added soft layers, and for the first time in three years, met Linh for coffee at Analog Coffee on Summit Avenue.

Linh hugged her at the entrance, eyes glassy.

“Jade, you look beautiful. I thought… I thought you weren’t coming back.”

Lan smiled—a real smile, not followed by “sorry I look terrible these days.”

In July 2025, Lan flew to California alone, stood on Santa Monica beach in a turquoise two-piece swimsuit she hadn’t worn since she was 37. The salty breeze brushed her skin—now brighter, healthier, without inflamed acne or deep dark circles. She sent a photo to Hạnh with the message:

“Thank you for not abandoning me when I abandoned myself.”

Hạnh replied: “Chị, I only opened the door. You walked through it.”

But the journey didn’t end with her skin. Around the same time, Lan started taking bigger marketing projects; a women’s health startup in Portland invited her to be a part-time strategic advisor. She reopened LinkedIn, updated her profile picture—no filters this time. She flew to Saigon in August to light incense for her mother, and for the first time, told her younger sister about the days she thought she wouldn’t survive. Her sister, now a mother, held her hand and said: “Come home, chị hai. Come live with us.”

She didn’t move back permanently, but she booked an open-ticket for November. She started relearning Vietnamese daily on Duolingo, joined a Vietnamese women’s group in Seattle, and held their first meet-up in September with 12 women—most around her age, many divorced or grieving. She stood and shared her story without trembling.

On the last night of October 2025, Lan sat on her balcony—now tidy and warm. On the table: a cup of chrysanthemum tea, a journal with notes from 378 days of her journey, and her final HA serum in the minimal routine Hạnh had adjusted for Seattle’s fall. She opened her Strongbody AI diary and typed the last entry of her six-month stage:

“I used to think beauty was for others to look at. Now I know beauty is what lets me look straight at my own pain—and still choose to live.”

She sipped her tea, the floral aroma spreading through the cool air. Outside, the city lights glowed, but this time they didn’t hurt her eyes. She knew the journey wasn’t over—bad skin days would come, weight would fluctuate, cycles might still be irregular under stress—but she wasn’t afraid anymore.

Because for the first time in a long time, Jade Lan had finally come home—to her body, to her life. And the key was in her hands.

Strongbody AI, Dr. Hạnh, the support group—they were companions.

But the one walking every step was her.

And the journey was far from over.

Getting Started with StrongBody AI

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Lan’s journey started from a single moment.

What moment will you choose to begin your first step?

Let StrongBody AI walk with you — today.

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