Leaving room for the unexpected
As this post is published, my time in Japan is coming to an end.
What feels slightly strange is that I'm writing these words before I've even boarded the plane.
By now, I'll have attended the GLOBIS International Alumni Reunion, participated in US-Japan Council Member Days, worked with a client on a new HR project, celebrated a friend's birthday, and hopefully spent time with many friends and colleagues who have been part of my journey in Japan over the years.
Sitting here today, however, I don't yet know how any of those experiences will unfold.
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The real lesson hidden inside our limits
Last week, I wrote about the joy of having something to look forward to. At the time, my upcoming trip to Japan felt comfortably distant. Now, with departure just around the corner, as I’m writing this post, anticipation has been joined by a familiar travel companion: anxiety.
Not because I'm worried about the trip itself.
In fact, quite the opposite.
I'm looking forward to returning to Japan, reconnecting with friends, participating in the GLOBIS International Alumni Reunion and US-Japan Council Member Days, and working with a client on a new HR project. It's a trip filled with many of the things I care deeply about: learning, relationships, meaningful work, and community.
The anxiety comes from the feeling that there is still so much to do before I leave.
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The quiet joy of having something to look forward to
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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Two iconic cities, two iconic beasts
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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What living in Japan taught me about Seneca's Definition of Happiness
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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How well do we really know someone?
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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Being pleasantly outsmarted by a Japanese mystery novel
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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Life Stories from Japan: Bringing Japanese-American history to life through the lives that shaped it
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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