Tu, an acquaintance of mine nearing 40, asked whether she should take her entire family to New Zealand to pursue a master's degree.

On paper, the plan made sense. Her two children would experience a different education system, while her husband could accompany her and, depending on visa conditions, work.

Tu would earn a master's degree in education. After graduation, she hoped to obtain a work visa for a certain period and explore opportunities for long-term residency.

Historic urban street view in Dunedin, New Zealand, with classic architecture and light traffic. Illustration photo by Pexels

The benefits she envisioned were real. A new learning environment could broaden her children's horizons, while an international qualification could strengthen her professional expertise, language skills and career network.

Living abroad for a few years, even if the family eventually returned home, could also change how they see the world and themselves.

Yet the more I listened, the more I realized that Tu was not simply attracted to these opportunities. She was also becoming uneasy about the stability of her current life.

Her story is not unique. It reflects a growing unease among people around 40 who have homes, stable jobs and growing children, but suddenly feel that life is closing off other possibilities.

For many at this stage, there is no obvious crisis. Tu and her husband both have jobs and relatively good incomes. Their children are doing well at school. They have a home, friends, extended family and relationships built over years. Nothing has happened to force them to leave.

That is precisely what makes the decision difficult.

When life becomes unbearable, the reason for leaving is usually clear. But when life is stable enough to stay in yet not compelling enough to silence thoughts of other possibilities, the choice becomes a question of meaning: Is stability an achievement to preserve, or a sign that life is stagnating?

Developmental psychology views middle age not simply as a biological milestone but as a distinct stage of life. Erik Erikson described it as a conflict between generativity — contributing to the next generation — and stagnation.

It is also a period when many people must manage professional and financial responsibilities, care for both children and aging parents, and become increasingly aware of the limits of time.

The idea of a "midlife crisis," however, is not universal. Studies have found that midlife experiences vary significantly across social groups and cultures. It may be more useful to view this period as one of reflection: considering what has been achieved, what opportunities may have been missed, and how the rest of one's life should be spent.

The fear of stagnation is not limited to those considering moving abroad. It can also affect people who stay but feel their lives narrowing: jobs are stable but predictable, relationships have become settled, and their children's futures have become a source of enormous pressure.

Among Vietnam's middle class, the expectation that children should "surpass their parents" can add to that pressure. Some parents may feel that without making a major change, they are failing to give the next generation enough opportunities.

Studying abroad is often described as an investment in an individual's education. For middle-aged families, however, it can mean reallocating almost every major resource: savings, income, time spent caring for family, children's schooling, a spouse's career and established social ties.

The outcome therefore cannot be measured solely by whether the student earns a master's degree. It also depends on whether the spouse can find work, whether the children adjust to a new school, whether the family can maintain its mental and financial well-being, and how labor markets and immigration policies change.

When discussing midlife choices, regret is often framed as the consequence of missed opportunities. But there are at least two kinds of regret: one from never trying and another from pursuing a costly change without fully understanding why.

No calculation can eliminate both possibilities. But it is possible to distinguish between a decision to move toward something and one made primarily to escape a feeling.

This distinction does not determine whether someone like Tu should leave or stay. It simply clarifies the choice.

If the education remains valuable even if the family eventually returns home, the financial cost does not undermine their long-term security, the couple has considered adverse scenarios, and the entire family accepts the move as an open-ended experience, then leaving can be viewed as a calculated risk.

But if the venture is considered "worthwhile" only if Tu finds a job and the family successfully settles down, they are committing a definite expense to a chain of outcomes largely beyond their control.

Such decisions are often justified by valid reasons: investing in children, improving qualifications or expanding career opportunities.

Yet beneath these reasons may be a less visible force: the fear of stagnation, the feeling that without making a significant change now, life will simply continue along a predetermined path.

There is nothing wrong with that fear. It can be a signal to reassess one's work, relationships and expectations for the next phase of life.

But a signal is not a command. The urge to change does not, by itself, tell us how that change should be made.