One of the quiet realities of living with a Japanese spouse is accepting that there are correct ways to do very ordinary things. Folding towels. Pouring beer. And, perhaps most humbling of all, cutting vegetables.
In Japan, cutting is not just preparation. It is technique, intention, and language all rolled into one. There are words for how you cut something, why you cut it that way, and what it will become once you do. Growing up, I thought chopping was chopping. After living in Japan, I learned that chopping is merely the beginning of a very long conversation.
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There are some books that do not ask much of you. They do not rush you or demand answers. They simply sit beside you while you hold what feels heavy.
The Vanishing Cherry Blossom Bookshop by Takuya Asakura felt like that kind of companion.
Reading it, I kept thinking about how loss is treated in Japan. Death is not always something to be explained or fixed. It is something that is acknowledged, given space, and woven gently into everyday life. Shrines appear at street corners. Names are spoken quietly. Seasons carry memory. Grief is allowed to exist without urgency.
The book carries that same softness. It does not turn away from death or absence. It stays with it. And in doing so, it creates room for healing that feels honest rather than forced.
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Some weeks, I’m not tired because of work. I’m tired because of the world. The constant information, the expectation to react, the feeling that being a good person means being endlessly engaged. It’s a kind of exhaustion that doesn’t lift with rest because it isn’t only physical. It’s the weight of feeling responsible for too much, all the time.
When I lived and worked in Japan, I didn’t escape that feeling entirely. In a work context, space often didn’t exist. Long hours were normal. Endurance was expected. Silence didn’t always mean rest; sometimes it meant holding things in. So this isn’t a romantic story about work-life balance.
And now, as a business owner, I feel a different version of that pressure. Responsibility doesn’t stop at the edges of the day. Even when I try to step back, there’s a low-level awareness that things ultimately come back to me. Setting responsibility down, even temporarily, is harder when you know you’re the final stop.
But outside of work in Japan, I noticed something that stayed with me.
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Ueno Park was full of surprises, but some of them came at head height.
If you spent enough weekends there, you eventually encountered them. Street performers sitting very still, dressed in traditional-looking clothing, wearing impossibly tall, exaggerated towering headpieces that made you stop and stare. They looked calm. Respectable. Almost ceremonial.
This was a trap.
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I’ve never climbed Mt. Fuji.
I’ve thought about it many times, and I know so many people who have done it, but somehow it never quite happened.
What I have done, though, is collect a surprising number of Mt. Fuji–shaped things.
And recently, this very precise little yokan.
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This morning, as we are getting ready for the session with Quick USA, I found myself thinking about something I have been noticing quite often in Japanese organizations operating in the U.S.
There is a strong tendency to keep things open just a little longer.
Not because people are unsure, but because they are still aligning, still taking context into account, still making sure that the direction is right before it is fully stated.
In Japan, this usually works very naturally. People are used to reading the situation, picking up on nuance, and understanding that clarity builds gradually over time.
But in the U.S., the same approach can feel different. What is meant as thoughtful alignment can easily be experienced as a lack of direction.
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There is something I keep seeing across many of the teams I work with.
People are capable.
People are committed.
People genuinely want to make things work.
And still, something feels harder than it should.
Decisions take longer than expected.
Good ideas lose momentum.
Strong hires don’t stay as long as hoped.
Not because people are not trying. But because they are often working from different assumptions about what “good” looks like.
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A Japanese expat manager recently received a surprise during their annual performance review in the U.S.: a comment from their American team that they were “distant and hard to approach.” The manager was stunned. In Japan, maintaining formality and emotional restraint is often seen as professional. In the U.S., it can be interpreted as cold or disengaged.
This moment revealed a deeper issue: the feedback gap between jinji and U.S. HR.
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In a recent ruling, Mizuho Bank Ltd. successfully defended itself against a discrimination and retaliation lawsuit brought by a former U.S.-based vice president. While the legal outcome favored Mizuho, the case highlights a deeper issue that many global Japanese companies face: the perception of bias and the need for culturally intelligent HR practices. 最近の判決において、みずほ銀行株式会社は、米国拠点の元副社長による差別および報復に関する訴訟に対して、成功裏に自己防衛を果たしました。法的な結果はみずほ銀行に有利なものでしたが、このケースは、多くのグローバルな日本企業が直面しているより深刻な課題を浮き彫りにしています。それは、偏見の認識と、文化的知性を備えた人事施策の必要性です。
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