This feels like one of those themes that becomes more interesting the more you pay attention to it. The older I get, the more I've reflected on how we all move through different versions of ourselves depending on where we are and who we're with.
I've been thinking lately about the many personas we all carry.
There is the person I am when I'm completely alone. There is the version of me that exists with my spouse, another that emerges with friends, and another that shows up at work. Each one is slightly different. Not better or worse. Just different.
For a long time, I thought authenticity meant being exactly the same in every situation. But the older I get, the more I realize that isn't how human beings work.
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Walking through residential streets in Tokyo, especially around Kiyosumi Shirakawa, I remember how the city would occasionally soften without warning. One moment it was concrete and utility poles, the next it was a quiet row of pots edging into the street, as if someone had gently expanded their home by a few inches.
In those neighborhoods, the sidewalk often carried these small, personal gardens. Plants arranged in front of houses in mismatched containers, some elevated, others directly on the ground. Nothing symmetrical, nothing styled in a deliberate way, and yet it always felt intentional. A bicycle leaning nearby, a hose tucked away, a doorway half visible behind the leaves. Everyday life continuing right alongside this thin band of green.
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Every summer in Japan, something quietly magical happens. Convenience stores fill with colorful paper, shopping streets sprout bamboo branches, and people start pausing, just for a moment, to write down their wishes.
This is Tanabata, or 七夕, the Star Festival.
It comes from the story of two stars, Orihime the weaver and Hikoboshi the cowherd, separated by the Milky Way and allowed to meet just once a year on July 7. If it rains, they cannot cross the sky to see each other, which adds a gentle sense of uncertainty to the tradition.Click below to read more.
Whenever people talk about summer in Japan, the first thing they mention is usually the heat. And fair enough. Japanese summers are not subtle. The air feels thick, shirts stick to your back within seconds, and even the cicadas seem to be screaming about the temperature.
But what I always loved was how communities seemed to have developed hundreds of little ways to make summer not just bearable, but enjoyable.
When I lived in Yamanouchi, a neighborhood in Kita-Kamakura tucked between temples, forests, and narrow winding roads, one of my favorite signs that summer had truly arrived was hearing drums in the distance. Eventually, a tiny truck would emerge from somewhere in the greenery, carrying musicians and festival lanterns, somehow navigating roads that looked barely wide enough for the truck itself.
To this day, I have no idea how they managed some of those corners.
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I love that this is one of those classic Japan moments where something is supposed to be very profound and artistic, but an entire nation has quietly agreed on a completely different interpretation.
Walking through Asakusa, it is impossible to miss the giant golden object perched on top of the black building across the Sumida River. Officially, it is called the "Flamme d'Or" or Golden Flame, and it was designed by French designer Philippe Starck as part of the Asahi Beer headquarters complex. The flame is meant to represent the burning heart of Asahi's brewing spirit.
Which is a lovely idea.
Unfortunately, to many people, including me, it looks much less like a blazing flame and much more like something a very large golden dog may have left behind.
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After Monday's reflection on the many personas we carry, I've been thinking about the one that often requires the most conscious effort: our work persona.
When I first started working in Japan, I assumed professionalism meant fitting into a certain mold. I spent a lot of time observing how people communicated, how decisions were made, and what was expected in different situations.
What I eventually realized is that Japanese business culture isn't asking you to become someone else. It's asking you to be aware of your surroundings.
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Last week, I had the opportunity to attend the Japan-U.S. Innovation Awards at Stanford University, organized by the Japan Society. The event celebrates companies and leaders who are shaping the future through innovation, while strengthening the important connection between Japan and the United States.
I came away genuinely impressed.
First, the organization of the event was exceptional. From the programming to the networking opportunities, it was clear that a great deal of thought had gone into bringing together entrepreneurs, investors, corporate leaders, academics, and policymakers. The result was an atmosphere where meaningful conversations happened naturally, and where innovation felt less like a buzzword and more like a shared mission.
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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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