03.
RESEARCH
A black hole first fascinated me through a paradox: how could something invisible possess a recognizable silhouette? That question followed me from childhood astronomy books into the Lumiere Research Program, where I worked under Oxford astrophysicist Richard Stiskalek. My first Python simulations resembled broken constellations, with photon trajectories disappearing into numerical errors. I spent evenings adjusting adaptive Runge–Kutta integration, watching light either surrender to gravity or escape toward an imaginary observer. Each corrected trajectory felt like recovering a message from somewhere beyond sight. I discovered that darkness, too, has a geometry.
My computer eventually became an observatory without a telescope. Across more than 120,000 combinations of black hole spin and observer inclination, I generated 4,000-by-4,000-pixel simulations, measuring how rotation distorted the shadows of Schwarzschild and Kerr black holes. The most intriguing results were subtle asymmetries, where a nearly circular boundary betrayed the violence of spacetime beneath it. Translating those patterns into a research paper taught me that computational physics demands both mathematical discipline and visual imagination. I was no longer merely studying the universe; I was learning how to interrogate its invisible architecture.
The strangest discovery of my research was that attention could sometimes improve through noise rather than silence. I began questioning whether different sound frequencies could help children with ADHD concentrate. Under Dr. Vu Ngoc Kien’s mentorship, I investigated this possibility through controlled experiments involving 48 children aged 6–16, exposing them to three frequency bands through calibrated headphones. I remember observing a child repeatedly losing track of a computerized task, his fingers wandering across the desk. Under another auditory condition, his responses appeared steadier. That small observation transformed an abstract hypothesis into a deeply human question: could sound become an invisible companion to concentration?
Yet curiosity alone could not establish scientific truth. I spent countless hours analyzing reaction times, missed responses, impulsive errors, and behavioral patterns using repeated-measures ANOVA, paired t-tests, and other statistical methods. High-frequency stimulation was associated with 13% improvement in sustained attention and 11% in selective attention. When our findings were published in the International Journal of Advanced Science and Engineering, I realized that the most meaningful discoveries were not always those offering definitive answers. Sometimes, they simply revealed new possibilities for understanding how the human brain responds to its acoustic environment.
What if the brain's electrical whispers could teach ultrasound where to travel? This question drew me into an unfamiliar territory where acoustics, neuroscience, and artificial intelligence intersected. Under Dr. Vu Ngoc Kien's mentorship, I explored whether neural signals could help predict ultrasonic wave behavior for personalized ADHD neurotherapy. My computer became a laboratory of invisible rhythms: EEG fluctuations, fMRI patterns, and acoustic propagation data, each speaking a different mathematical language. I used Discrete Wavelet Transform to extract their hidden features, then developed a Deep Spiking Neural Network inspired by the brain's own electrical impulses. Early simulations produced unstable predictions, forcing me to rethink how the model learned. Integrating Golden Jackal Optimization helped refine its parameters, eventually achieving 97.5% prediction accuracy across 2,500 multimodal samples. Published in Communications on Applied Nonlinear Analysis, the research reshaped my understanding of intelligence. I learned that innovation sometimes begins by teaching machines to interpret nature's most intricate conversations.
Satellite Engineering Textbook
Space has no roads, yet every satellite must follow a path written by gravity. I became fascinated by this paradox while contributing to the Satellite Engineering Textbook under Dr. Pham Thanh Cong. My task was to translate orbital mechanics into numerical models that students could actually visualize. Using NASA NTRS references, I simulated low-Earth-orbit trajectories under changing altitudes, velocities, and atmospheric drag conditions. Across more than 1,000 simulations, I watched seemingly stable orbits gradually unravel, their elegant curves bending toward Earth under invisible perturbations. The most intriguing discovery was how small disturbances could accumulate into dramatic orbital decay. Transforming these calculations into textbook illustrations taught me something unexpected: scientific precision and visual storytelling are not opposites. Sometimes, the clearest way to explain the universe is to let mathematics draw its own pictures.
