My Time in Japan: The Importance of Belonging to Mental Health
- Isabella Fowden
- 3 hours ago
- 5 min read
Last year, I spent six months living and working in Japan. I worked at the World Expo as a photographer, a role that allowed me to meet people from a wide range of backgrounds. It was an experience that stayed with me long after I left, not because it was extreme or overwhelming, but because it quietly changed how I understand belonging and mental health. Being in a place where I didn’t fully fit in made me more aware of how much our sense of well-being is shaped by whether we feel connected to the people around us. This awareness came to me after I interviewed some of my Japanese colleagues.
Moving to Japan was entirely new to me. I am Irish and grew up in Europe, so this felt like a new, exciting experience. Everyday life was unfamiliar in a way that kept me alert and engaged. I was learning constantly, how to commute, how to interact at work, how to move through the city. In the beginning, that learning felt energising. For example, in Japan, going out for food was a norm, not a “special treat” as it often is in Europe; for affordable prices, I could eat delicacies like freshly made ramen from tiny local shops, onigiri from convenience stores, and carefully prepared bento meals that turned everyday eating into something thoughtful and enjoyable. Eating out alone was also common, seen as a convenient way to have a meal after work. This took me some getting used to, as I had always thought of eating in restaurants as an experience meant to be shared.
After a few months, though, a feeling of isolation began to appear. The language barrier played a role, but it wasn’t the only factor. More difficult was understanding how society worked around me and how I was expected to fit into it. Japan is known for its strong traditions and social norms: not eating while walking, bowing as a sign of respect, keeping quiet on public transport, and prioritising group harmony over individual expression. This contrasts with some European norms, which is what I am used to, where people often eat in a hurry, take loud phone calls on public transport, and prioritise personal comfort over collective consideration.
My Japanese colleagues came from different backgrounds. Many had lived or studied abroad, and some had spent years outside Japan. As I became more comfortable with them, I started wondering whether the feeling I had was specific to being foreign, or whether it was something more widely felt. Eventually, I began asking a simple question: “Do you feel like you fit into Japanese society?”
Most people laughed and shook their heads. A few didn’t want to comment. Some said yes.
I was surprised by how many people said no. I had assumed that fitting in was something that naturally came with growing up in a place, but the responses suggested otherwise. Hearing people who were born and raised in Japan describe similar feelings to mine made me realise that I wasn't as alone in my experience of isolation as I had thought.
I asked those who answered no if I could interview them further and take portraits of them. As a photographer, engaging in conversations with interesting people often sparks a desire to capture their essence in an image. These conversations were open and unforced. People spoke about the pressure to behave in certain ways, the difficulty of expressing individuality, and the effort it takes to meet expectations consistently. Several talked about the tension between valuing tradition and wanting change.
At the same time, everyone I spoke to expressed respect for Japan’s history and values. Many said they appreciated the structure and sense of order, but hoped society would become more open in the future. These interviews weren’t complaints; they were reflections. For many, it seemed rare to have the space to talk about these feelings at all.
Taking portraits alongside these conversations added another layer. Photography slowed things down. It gave people a reason to pause and reflect, and it created a setting where they felt listened to. Several people mentioned that talking about their experiences and having them taken seriously made them feel less alone. In a small way, the process itself became part of the conversation about belonging.
When taking the images, I left much of the posing up to the individuals themselves. One colleague I interviewed, Junya, comes from a dance background, so we decided to take his portraits in the city, allowing him to move in organic, fluid ways. As we spoke, different ideas emerged naturally. At one point, Junya noticed a queue of people outside a shop, queuing is a normal part of Japanese culture, with people often waiting for hours to attend events or visit popular stores. He suggested running against the direction of the queue, using movement to visually express how he feels when life becomes rigid or overly structured.
Hearing my colleagues talk openly about not fitting in helped me understand my own experience differently. What I had initially seen as a personal difficulty began to feel more shared. It wasn’t about failing to adapt, but about navigating systems that don’t always leave room for difference. The interviews gave me insight into how common these feelings are, even when they aren’t often spoken about.
During these interviews, a few colleagues turned the question back to me: “Do you feel like you fit into Irish society?” The question stayed with me. It made me realise that the feeling of being an outsider wasn’t unique to Japan. In many ways, I don’t feel like I fit neatly into Irish society either. I’ve often felt slightly between things, between places, roles, or expectations. Being in Japan didn’t create that feeling, but it made it more visible. By the time I left Japan, I felt a deeper compassion for myself and for others. I learned that mental health isn’t shaped only by internal factors or personal history, but by how safely we feel we can exist as ourselves within a society. Feeling slightly out of place, even in subtle ways, can have an ongoing impact.
Looking back, I realise that asking my colleagues if they felt like outsiders was also a way of reaching out. It was a way of connecting through shared uncertainty, though not having everything figured out. Their honesty helped me articulate my own feelings, and in turn, the conversations seemed to give them space to reflect as well.
Photography didn’t remove my sense of discomfort, but it grounded it. It gave me a way to connect without needing perfect language. It reminded me that even when we feel on the edges, conversation and attention can reduce isolation. Sometimes, taking the time to ask and to listen is enough to make people feel less alone, including ourselves. The full interviews can be found on beachpigeons.com, an online magazine I started, which was inspired by these open conversations.
