Eight Tiny Japanese Habits That Are Quietly Rebuilding My Life

(Now plus six more that I didn’t realize I needed)

There are seasons in life when everything you thought was solid suddenly feels like shifting sand. Your body changes. Your capacity changes. Your plans collapse and reform in shapes you didn’t choose. I’ve had years like that. Years where every corner of my life felt like it needed repair, reimagining, or complete reconstruction.

Somewhere in all of that, I found myself drawn to Japanese philosophy. Not the shiny Instagram kind, but the old, quiet wisdom. The kind that doesn’t demand you overhaul your life overnight. Instead, it invites you back into yourself in small, human-sized ways. These habits have become a kind of map for me. A grounding. A way to live inside a body with limits and still find beauty, purpose, humor, and a little rebellion tucked into the edges.

I’m not pretending I’m an expert. I’m simply sharing how these ideas have woven themselves into my healing, into my routines, into the way I’m building the next chapters of my life. These habits are ancient... but somehow they feel tailor-made for the world we’re living in now.

So, let’s walk through them. One at a time. Real talk, real stories, real application.

1. Kaizen: The Small Steps That Saved My Sanity

For most of my adult life, I tried to “fix” things with big gestures. Big plans. Big changes. Big expectations. And big disappointment when my body couldn’t cooperate. Chronic pain has a way of turning even the best intentions into exhaustion.

Kaizen - this tiny, steady habit of small, consistent steps - has been one of the greatest reliefs of my life. I didn’t realize I was practicing kaizen until I finally admitted to myself that giant lifestyle overhauls were draining my nervous system.

What I could do, though, were tiny shifts:

• Rearranging my kitchen so the dishes I actually use are easy to reach.

• Spending five minutes stretching instead of trying to force a full routine.

• Writing one paragraph instead of a chapter.

• Updating one section of my website at a time.

• Making one healthier swap in my meals instead of reinventing my

  entire diet.

Kaizen asks for progression, not perfection. And for someone living in a body that flares, collapses, sharpens, and softens with no warning - that mindset is everything.

A little more on this:

What I love most about kaizen is that it doesn’t shame you for what you can’t do; it honors what you can. It reminds me that small steps are still steps, and that consistency is far more powerful than intensity. Sometimes my “kaizen” for the day is simply reorganizing a single drawer or writing two honest sentences. Other days it’s making a phone call I’ve been avoiding or preparing a softer meal that won’t inflame my system. When I let myself embrace the simplicity of small action, I feel less overwhelmed and more capable... and that emotional shift alone helps my body calm down.

2. Ikigai: The Reason I Still Get Up Every Morning

If kaizen is how I move, ikigai is why.

Ikigai is the Japanese idea of having a reason for waking up - some quiet purpose that pulls you into the day. It doesn’t have to be profound. It doesn’t have to be profitable. It doesn’t have to be what society calls “success.”

For me, ikigai has become the intersection of what I love, what I’m good at, what helps people, and what gives me meaning. It’s my writing. My blog. My spiritual work. My creative projects. My workshops. My desire to help people make sense of their own pain and confusion.

Living with chronic illness has forced me to strip life down to the essentials. And in that stripping-down process, ikigai showed up like a compass:

• I write because it gives me life.

• I create because it connects me to something higher.

• I share my journey because someone else might need to hear it.

• I teach because my experiences became their own kind of

  curriculum.

  
  

This deeper purpose steadies me. It also aligns with research showing that people who have purpose live longer, heal faster, and endure hardship with more resilience.

A little more on this:

Ikigai also pulled me out of emotional spirals during times when daily life felt fragmented. When I focus on purpose instead of pain, something inside me reorganizes. It doesn’t cure anything, but it gives me direction - and direction is powerful medicine. I’ve learned that purpose doesn’t demand energy; it actually gives it, even in small doses. Some days my ikigai shows up as a whisper when I don’t feel well... “share something honest today.” Other days it becomes a surge of inspiration. But however it comes, it keeps me connected to the world instead of shrinking away from it.

3. Hara Hachi Bu: Eating in a Way My Body Can Actually Handle

Let me be honest: with my health conditions, eating has not always been a peaceful experience. Pain, inflammation, histamine responses, digestion issues—you name it, my body has thrown it at me. So when I learned about hara hachi bu, the Okinawan practice of stopping at 80% full, I felt something in me exhale. It felt like permission.

This isn’t about dieting. It’s about tuning in. It’s about creating space for your body to respond without being overwhelmed. It’s about reducing inflammation and honoring the signals I used to ignore.

Practically, for me, it looks like:

• Smaller, softer, gentler meals.

• Pausing halfway and checking in.

• Eating slow enough to notice when my body says “enough.”

• Ending meals before the pain kicks in.

A little more on this:

There’s also a grounding to this practice that surprised me. Eating has become less of a battle and more of a conversation between me and my body. I’m learning to recognize fullness cues that I used to bulldoze past. I’m noticing that when I stop at “comfortable,” my flare-ups are milder and my energy rebounds sooner. This approach also helps me feel safer around food, which matters more to me now than ever. Hara hachi bu has taught me that nourishment isn’t just about what I eat; it’s about how I treat myself while eating.

4. Shinrin-Yoku: Nature as Medicine (Even if I Never Leave My Balcony)

Before illness reshaped my mobility, I loved being out in nature. Beaches, woods, trails... it all felt like part of my soul. Now, my access to nature looks different, but the impact is the same. Shinrin-yoku means “forest bathing,” but I quickly learned it doesn’t require an actual forest. It only requires presence.

My version includes:

• My fairy garden pots on the balcony.

• Touching moss when my nervous system spirals.

• Watching light hit my cactus and noticing the pink bloom.

• Sitting by my plants when pain spikes.

• Listening to birds and wind even if I’m indoors.

• Watching nature videos on the days I can’t handle sensory overload.

A little more on this:

Shinrin-yoku isn’t about geography; it’s about nervous- system nourishment. Something as simple as watching a leaf fall or noticing the pattern of sunlight through the blinds can shift my entire day. I’ve also started using nature intentionally, stepping outside for fresh air when my thoughts spiral - or touching a leaf to pull myself out of dissociation. These tiny rituals have become anchor points in my routine. Even small doses of nature remind me that I’m part of something bigger and softer than my symptoms.

5. Wabi-Sabi: Finding Beauty in the Life I Didn’t Plan

Wabi-sabi is one of the most liberating concepts I’ve ever embraced. It’s the idea that imperfection, wear, age, and incompleteness are not flaws - they’re part of beauty.

The truth is, my life doesn’t look like I imagined it would. My health journey, my mobility, my plans... all of them have cracks, detours, and moments I never would have chosen. But wabi-sabi has helped me shift the way I see my reality.

For me, wabi-sabi looks like:

• No longer trying to make my home look like a showroom.

• Embracing the softness of blankets, warm lighting, real textures, lived-in comfort.

• Accepting my body exactly where it is - complex, imperfect, still sacred.

• Choosing honesty in my writing instead of polished perfection.

• Celebrating the messy, human, raw edges of my story.

A little more on this:

This mindset has softened the way I speak to myself, too. I’m no longer demanding “perfection” from a body that’s doing its best. I’ve allowed myself to love spaces that are cozy instead of curated. I’ve embraced clothing that feels good instead of clothing meant to impress. And creatively, wabi-sabi has set me free - my writing is deeper and more authentic when I stop forcing it into perfect lines. Life’s rough edges are often where the truth lives.

6. Gaman: Enduring Without Losing Myself

Gaman is about quiet endurance... bearing what must be borne with dignity, patience, and inner strength. And if there’s anything chronic illness teaches you, it’s gaman.

But here’s what I’ve learned: gaman doesn’t mean martyrdom. It doesn’t mean pretending everything is fine. It doesn’t mean shoving your needs aside because you think strength equals silence.

For me, gaman now looks like:

• Resting unapologetically.

• Saying “no” even when people want a “yes.”

• Letting myself melt into softness on the days my body demands it.

• Choosing boundaries instead of self-sacrifice.

• Enduring with wisdom instead of white-knuckling life.

A little more on this:

There’s a steadiness that forms when I allow myself to endure without pretending I’m invincible. I’ve learned that asking for help isn’t weak—it’s wise. I’ve learned to protect my emotional capacity the same way I protect my physical strength. Every time I choose rest over guilt, I’m practicing a healthier version of resilience. Gaman, for me, is no longer about gritting my teeth; it’s about honoring my limits and still moving forward with quiet dignity.

7. Omotenashi: Leading My Work With Heart, Not Hustle

When I first learned the word omotenashi, I immediately recognized it. It’s the spirit of hospitality that comes from sincerity, attention, and genuine desire to care for others - without expecting anything in return.

That’s exactly how I approach my writing, my blog, my workshops, my consultations. I create because I want people to feel understood, validated, grounded, and less alone.

Omotenashi, for me, looks like:

• Writing with intention

• Anticipating what my readers need

• Sharing my story so others can see themselves

• Offering support, clarity, and truth

• Doing everything from a place of sincerity, not performance

A little more on this:

Omotenashi also keeps me grounded in authenticity instead of slipping into performance mode. It reminds me that my readers don’t need perfection—they need presence. When I write from a place of honesty, people feel it. And when I offer my experiences openly, others gain the language to articulate their own. This style of giving creates connection, not pressure, and that’s the kind of exchange I want to build my work around.

8. Kintsugi - Turning My Cracks Into Gold

Kintsugi might be the most personally significant of these habits for me. It’s the art of repairing broken pottery with gold, turning the cracks into the most beautiful part of the piece.

My life has had its share of cracks - physical, emotional, relational, spiritual. But instead of hiding them, I’ve learned to integrate them. I’ve learned to pour gold into the broken places through storytelling, personal truth, honesty, and creative expression.

My writing is kintsugi.

My healing journey is kintsugi.

My health struggles, my resilience, my spiritual growth - they’re all golden seams running through the narrative.

A little more on this:

I’ve also learned that sharing my story is part of the gold. Every time I take a piece of my pain and express it in writing or conversation, it becomes less heavy and more meaningful. My cracks remind me that healing isn’t linear - it’s layered, textured, and uniquely mine. And every time someone tells me my words helped them, the gold spreads a little further. Kintsugi is a reminder that the broken parts of life aren’t the end; they’re the transformation.

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Six More Habits That Are Quietly Changing Me

As I learned more, I realized there were additional Japanese practices that are also reshaping how I live, heal, and connect. So here are the six more I’ve been slowly incorporating...

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9. Ichigo Ichie: The Sacredness of This Exact Moment

There is a Japanese phrase — ichigo ichie — that means “one time, one meeting.” It’s a reminder that each moment is a once-in-a-lifetime event. Nothing repeats. Nothing is guaranteed. Even ordinary minutes are rare jewels.

A little more on this: This mindset helps me grasp beauty even when life isn’t ideal. It’s made me softer with myself and more present with others. The moment I’m living now will never come again, so I might as well receive it.

10. Chado: Tea as a Ceremony of Calm

Chado is the traditional Japanese tea ceremony - a ritual of slowing down, honoring the senses, and being fully present. It doesn’t have to be fancy. A warm beverage can be enough.

A little more on this: Warm beverages trigger the vagus nerve and send a “you’re safe” signal to the brain. Chado has taught me that self-care doesn’t require a spa - sometimes it just requires a mug and a moment.

11. Asa Taiso: Waking Up the Body With Grace

Asa taiso is the gentle morning stretching routine practiced across Japan - sometimes in parks, sometimes broadcast on the radio.

Movement - even tiny movement improves circulation, joint comfort, digestion, and mental alertness. Asa taiso gives my mornings a kinder start... and that changes the tone of my entire day.

12. Oosouji: Clearing Space to Clear My Spirit

Oosouji literally means “big cleaning” - but spiritually, it’s about cleansing stagnant energy.

Environmental psychology shows that clutter increases cortisol and brain fatigue. Each space I simplify gives me a breath of calm. Letting go of physical things feels like letting go of what’s weighing me down emotionally too.

13. Onsen Ritual: Water as Healing Medicine

Traditionally, onsens are natural hot springs where people go to restore their muscles, nervous system, and spirit.

Warm water therapy improves circulation, reduces inflammation, calms the sympathetic nervous system, and supports sleep. For me, it’s where my pain softens and my soul exhales - even if just for a little while.

14. Rei: Gratitude in Every Gesture

Rei is the spirit of respectful gratitude - bowing to life itself. Not in a grand way... but in tiny everyday acknowledgments.

Gratitude literally rewires the brain toward well-being and resilience. Rei teaches me that respect is not just for others - it’s something I can offer myself, my home, my food, and my journey. It keeps my heart open.

Reflection

Which of these habits is calling to you the most right now?

Where could you take one tiny step of kaizen today?

Which cracks in your life might be asking for a little gold?

We don’t need to rebuild our lives overnight.

We only need to choose the next small, honest step.