There isn’t a single explanation for what makes modern life feel soulless. But one thing I often notice is a chronic drought of inspiration. It’s hard to feel inspired in a world so full of division, hyper-efficiency, obsession with money, eroded community, and widening inequality. It becomes difficult to pause and reflect on the ideals that live within us. And when life is packed with noise and distraction, we lose the space to breathe, to talk, to simply be.

I was lucky to have a moment in college when everything felt like a question, and every question lit a spark. But after graduation, I had to come back down to build something “sustainable.” To find a job. To deliver value. Like everyone else, I ran that race. I made decent money. But something felt off. Was it the job? The system? The money? I’d always been drawn to technology for its power to connect people and turn creativity into something real. But somewhere along the way, the industry took a turn, and I found myself distanced from the very reasons I started.

My husband had his own questions about the race, too. More money, new jobs. It all felt like rearranging pieces within the same frame. I realized I didn’t need a new idea. I needed inspiration.

Originally, our Japan trip was just a family trip—the first one since I became an American citizen. Food, sightseeing, time together. But with that quiet realization in the background, I gave myself a subtle goal: to find a new source of inspiration. I had once dreamed of living in Japan during college, so I knew there was something there, waiting. It’s tempting to say things like “generational craftsmanship” or “Japanese hospitality” but those can become clichés. Even Japan isn't untouched by change. What matters isn’t just the tradition, but the spirit behind it.

So I arrived with no big plan. Just a commitment to stay open and observant. It’s easy to praise beauty and kindness in Japan as a tourist, but I came with eyes wide open. Cabbage shortages. Rice prices. Electricity so expensive that anime characters joke about using air conditioning. Outdated work cultures. Japan carries the same modern tensions just in its own way.

And yet, something began to stir.

It started as a flicker when I got off at Nippori Station after a 14-hour flight. Then came a tiny sushi place. Then another moment. And another. Each day brought a quiet sense of recognition.

It was the young entrepreneurs running the ryokan, the staff who took pride in their work (Takeda-kun!). The eccentric grandpa running a siphon coffee shop. The old house restored into a lunch spot. The humble breakfast places I loved. The Shinkansen cleaners. Each person brought something of themselves—a philosophy, a sincerity. The scale didn’t matter. Their intent did. At some point, I found myself wondering, how do these places even work economically? But that lens - money, productivity - missed the point. These weren’t just businesses. They were beliefs, painted in everyday life. And people noticed. Some supported it. Others were it.