From the Mountains of Laos to a Dental Practice in Georgia

My journey to dentistry began on the other side of the world, among the mountains of northern Laos. To truly understand how I ended up here—serving patients and practicing dentistry in Georgia—we must travel back through time, culture, war, and resilience.

I am Hmong. We are a historically nomadic people whose origins are believed to be traced back to China. Without a written language until 1953, our stories, values and history have been passed down through generations orally. Those stories speak of a people marked by hardship and migration, with no homeland to call their own.

In the 20th century, most Hmong lived in Laos, Vietnam and Thailand. Today, in the U.S., we are just 400,000 strong—a mere fraction of the national population. My parents, Wang and Blia Her, were born in the tranquil mountains of Laos. Life was simple: farming, animal care and collecting water. Villages were tight-knit, safe and deeply communal. But the shadow of the Vietnam War crept into Laos and life would never be the same.

Becoming Refugees

At just 15, my father became a child soldier, fighting in a CIA-backed group in Laos during the Vietnam War. After six years of service, he returned home and began a family. I was born in 1977, the fifth of ten children, in a thatched hut with bamboo walls and dirt floors.

Peace was fleeting. The new Laos government sought vengeance against former Hmong soldiers. With danger escalating, my parents made the heart-wrenching decision to flee. In 1979, we joined a caravan of 80 Hmong refugees on a perilous 100-mile trek to Thailand. Through jungles, barefoot and hungry, we carried what little we had—my siblings on foot, my baby sister and I in arms.

In secret, my family paid for a small boat to ferry us across the Mekong River— the journey was harrowing. None of us knew how to swim and we barely made it. I nearly lost my life to a Thai soldier simply for crying too loudly. Disease, overcrowding and trauma defined our existence at Bahn Vinai refugee camp for over 400 days.

Finally, in 1980, my aunt sponsored us and we were granted refuge in the United States.

We arrived in Denver, Colorado, dazed and unsure. We were met with clean water and mattresses—luxuries unknown to us. However, we now faced a new kind of hardship: cultural barriers, language and the loneliness of being Hmong in a place that didn’t know us.

After two years, we scraped together what we had and relocated to Fresno, California. Our neighborhood, Pinedale, was gang-ridden and impoverished. But it had a strong Hmong community. We lived off welfare and wore donated clothes, but my parents never wavered. Despite their struggles, they sacrificed everything to provide for us.

At ten, I decided I wanted more than Pinedale could offer. I studied hard, learned to play music and played sports despite my size. I rode the school activity bus from wealthy neighborhoods back to the ghetto and used that journey as motivation—I wanted to live on the other side of the tracks.

A Path to Success

In 1994, after my junior year of high school, we moved once again, this time to North Carolina, chasing new job opportunities and a growing Hmong community. By now, I was used to change. I enrolled at the University of Southern California, following my brother’s example, and majored in accounting. Why accounting? Because the only image of success I knew as a kid was men in suits with briefcases. After graduating from USC, I pursued graduate studies at the University of Illinois, passed the CPA exam, and began work at Grant Thornton, a prestigious accounting firm in Minneapolis.

On paper, I had made it: an office with a view, business suits and a paycheck that validated years of hard work. But, in reality, I felt disconnected. I wasn’t fulfilled shuffling papers and crunching numbers. I wanted to work with my hands and connect with people.

Then, a client, who happened to be a dentist, introduced me to a profession I had never considered: dentistry. Dentistry combined everything I loved: science, people, hands-on work, and healing. So, at 26, I walked away from accounting and back into the unknown.

A Leap of Faith

After years of night classes and soul-searching, I was accepted into the University of Minnesota School of Dentistry. It was one of the happiest days of my life. Dental school was tough, but my previous experiences had made me resilient. After graduating, I chose to serve the Hmong community in St. Paul, Minnesota, working at a clinic that catered to low-income patients, many of whom were new refugees, just like I once was.

Eventually, my wife Rachel and I, now with three sons, moved to Buford, Georgia. We purchased a dental practice and slowly built it into a thriving, full-service office. It wasn’t easy, mistakes were made and lessons were learned, but we grew. And through it all, we kept our values: compassion, excellence and community.

Today, I am 48 years old, a husband, father of five and a proud dentist. From the mountains of Laos to the streets of Pinedale, to a high-rise accounting firm, to a dental practice in Georgia—my journey has been anything but straight. But every turn, every hardship, and every leap of faith painted the portrait of who I am.

And I am not alone. My family, once refugees, have all thrived:

• William Mong Her, DDS (University of Minnesota, 2010)

• Pao Herr, DPM (Doctor of Podiatric Medicine, NY School of Podiatry)

• James Yang Her, DDS (University of Minnesota, 2009)

• Ploua Her, BS (USC Marshall School of Business)

• Neng Her, BS (Johnson & Wales University, 2004)

All thanks to two extraordinary parents who gave everything so their children could live a different life.

 If I could speak to the little boy crossing the Mekong, or the kid in Pinedale dreaming of more, or the accountant questioning his life choices, I’d tell them: hardship can shape you, but it doesn’t have to define you. Faith, perseverance, and gratitude light the way forward.

Every day I walk into my practice, I carry that message in my heart. Dentistry is more than a profession, it’s my purpose. And I am thankful for every twist in the road that brought me here.

To anyone facing their own mountains, know this: the path may be hard, but the view is worth it.