What Japan Taught Me About How to Move Through the World
The kids are brighter here—animated, alive, buzzing with an energy that feels untouched by screens or cynicism. And maybe that’s because they’re surrounded by elders who are just as vibrant. The old women—and the old in general—aren’t tucked away or shrinking back. They’re healthy, social, biking through neighborhoods, giving up their seats on buses, helping one another with the sort of gentle ease that makes aging look less like a sentence and more like a privilege.
The parents? They actually seem happy to be parents. They play with their kids. They love them openly. There is no performance in their affection, only presence.
Everywhere I went, people were impossibly well-mannered. No pushing. No jostling. People line up for the escalator like it’s a sacred ritual. You say sumimasen and someone responds instantly—alert, efficient, almost choreographed in the way they move around you.
There’s an unspoken rulebook, too, one that relies more on grace than enforcement: Don’t speak on your phone on the bus, the train, or in restaurants. Walk on the left, always—take up only as much space as you need, and leave the rest for others. Bow every now and then, just enough to keep humility in circulation. And whatever you do, don’t try to take your noodles to go.
There are no public trash cans, so you carry your trash home like a secret. The food portions are small but mysteriously filling, as if calibrated perfectly for the human body rather than the American appetite. And in a society where women don’t have to look over their shoulders, there’s no pressure to sexualize yourself, no competition with the male gaze—just a collective understanding that your body belongs to you, and only you.
Traveling here made me realize: Japan isn’t just a place. It’s a lesson in how to move through the world with intention, respect, and a little more softness.