Edit 54: A Definition of Generosity
Our relationship with Japan began in 2009.
The skyline looks a bit different now. TeamLab from 2018 does, too.
Crazy to think it used to be so empty and easy to navigate.
At the time, I couldn't have imagined that one move would become nearly two decades of returning, leaving, living, learning, and returning again. Japan has been our home. But it’s also been a teacher, a refuge, and, at times, a mirror. It has shaped not only how I travel, but how I move through the world.
Looking back, I can see that my relationship with this place has evolved much like any meaningful relationship does. And at first, I wanted to share everything.
Every tiny café and neighborhood bakery. Vintage shops that sold repurposed kimono and fabric. Every quiet tea house tucked behind an unassuming doorway felt like a gift too wonderful to keep to myself. Sharing them felt like gratitude for the experience we were able to have.
But time has a way of changing us.
Over the years, I stopped seeing these places as only discoveries, and started seeing them for what they truly were: communities. I began noticing what makes them what they are—the regulars who greet the owner by name, the steady assurance of businesses that have never needed to chase attention because they have always been sustained by the people around them.
We often assume sharing is always an act of generosity, and to be fair, sometimes it is. Some places deserve to be celebrated widely. New restaurants finding their footing, artists building an audience, independent businesses hoping to be discovered—each benefit from being seen.
But not every place needs to be seen by everyone.
Some are already thriving because they already exist within the ecosystem that has sustained them for years, sometimes generations. They don't need to become the next destination. They don’t need a viral moment that create lines so long the original patrons can no longer visit. What they need is the space to continue being themselves.
Perhaps this is what has changed most over the past two decades: I used to wonder, how can I share the places that I love? Now I find myself asking a different question…
How can I protect it?
For me, that has meant recognizing that care is different than enthusiasm, and generosity isn't always measured by how loudly we amplify something. Sometimes the most generous act is protecting the places that have given us so much for so long. And it’s not because they belong to us, but because, for a little while, we were fortunate enough to belong to them.
