As October begins, I find myself looking forward to a trip that brings together many of the things I value most: learning, reconnecting, meaningful work, and friendship.

From 10 to 20 October, I'll be back in Japan, a country that has shaped so much of my personal and professional journey. Even though I no longer live there full-time, every visit feels a bit like coming home.

What excites me most about this trip is the opportunity to reconnect with communities that have had a lasting impact on my life. I'll be attending the GLOBIS International Alumni Reunion and participating in the US-Japan Council Member Days in Tokyo. Both gatherings bring together people with diverse backgrounds, experiences, and perspectives, united by a shared interest in leadership, cross-cultural understanding, and creating positive impact.

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Last week, I visited New York for the first time.

Of course, I had to visit the Empire State Building. And of course, I had to take one of those tourist photos with King Kong appearing in the background.

As I was looking at the photo later, it brought back a memory from my time in Tokyo.

Back in 2015, while I was living there, the head of Godzilla was installed on top of the Hotel Gracery in Shinjuku. It quickly became one of those landmarks that everyone seemed to photograph. Whether you were a tourist or a resident, you couldn't help but look up and smile.

And that's when it struck me.

New York has King Kong.

Tokyo has Godzilla.

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Since moving to the United States after many years in Japan, I've found myself reflecting on the lessons that stayed with me. Some of them came from conversations, some from experiences, and some from Japanese expressions that carried more wisdom than I understood at the time. Recently, those memories came flooding back when I read a quote from Seneca: "To be happy, eliminate two things: the fear of a bad future and the memory of a bad past."

The quote resonated immediately because it describes a tendency I know all too well. Like many people, I can spend far too much time imagining problems that never materialize while replaying moments that cannot be changed. What struck me, though, was how much Seneca's observation echoed ideas I encountered during my years in Japan.

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Last week, I wrote about Malice by Keigo Higashino, a novel that kept putting me on the back foot. Just when I thought I had worked out what was going on, another twist would force me to rethink everything.

This week, I stayed in the world of Japanese crime fiction with Confessions by Kanae Minato. The original Japanese title is 告白 Kokuhaku, which simply means "confession." In Japanese, though, the word often brings to mind a heartfelt admission or even a romantic declaration. Having lived in Japan for years, I couldn't help but think of all the dramas and stories where kokuhaku is the moment someone finally reveals their feelings.

There is nothing romantic about the confessions in this novel. Instead, each confession peels back another layer of grief, resentment, and revenge, revealing just how far people will go when consumed by their own sense of justice.

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A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about how I relax with detective novels.

Most people probably don't hear "murder mystery" and think "self-care," but I've long since accepted that my brain is wired a little differently. Give me a quiet afternoon, a cup of tea, and a fictional homicide to solve, and I'm perfectly happy.

After recently enjoying Tokyo Express by Seichō Matsumoto, I decided to stay with Japanese detective fiction and listen to Malice by Keigo Higashino.

I thought I knew what I was getting into.

I was wrong.

And somehow it's absolutely gripping.

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One of my favorite things about living between cultures is that there is always another story waiting to be discovered.

A little while ago, I had the pleasure of meeting Simon Partner, a history professor at Duke University, at an event in San Francisco's Japantown. Simon was visiting the Bay Area for the summer, researching the rich history of Japanese-Americans in San Francisco. What started as a casual conversation quickly turned into one of those encounters that reminds me why I love connecting with people who are curious about the world.

Mindfulness is often associated with slowing down and being present. For me, it's also about noticing the stories, people, and histories that shape the communities around us. That is exactly what I found in Simon's Substack, Life Stories from Japan.

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I've been thinking about something recently, and I'm curious whether I'm the only one noticing it.

Over the years, a lot of people have reached out to me asking for advice. Sometimes they're interested in working in Japan. Sometimes they're looking for information about Japanese companies, introductions to people in my network, or guidance on navigating a career change. Most of the time, I'm happy to help. I've been fortunate to have many people help me throughout my career, and sharing a bit of what I've learned feels like a small way to pay that forward.

What I've noticed lately, though, is how often the interaction simply ends once the help has been provided.

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This week's Mindful Monday was inspired by a recent LinkedIn post from my friend Darren that asked three simple questions: Where were you born? Where do you live now? Where do you feel you belong?

My answers would be Belgium, the United States, and... I'm not entirely sure.

What I do know is that if you asked me where home is, I'd probably answer Japan or the U.S. It definitely wouldn't be Belgium.

That feels strange to say because I mostly lived in Belgium until I was 38. I then moved permanently to Japan, and later to the U.S. On paper, Belgium should be the obvious answer. It's where I spent most of my life.

But belonging doesn't seem to work like that.

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