Rising Again: How Japan Redefined My Understanding of Resilience
Growing up in the 80s, at the height of the Cold War, I was haunted by the threat of nuclear war. Air raid sirens, mushroom clouds, and fallout shelters loomed large in both the news and my imagination. Hiroshima was a name I heard often in school—an example, a warning, a history lesson—but it always felt distant and terrifying, like a dark myth you hoped would never repeat itself.
I was mesmerized, appalled, and deeply unsettled by what had happened there.
So when I found myself walking through Hiroshima Peace Memorial Park all these years later, the emotional weight hit hard.
I expected it to be sobering, but I wasn’t prepared for the overwhelming stillness—a kind of reverent quiet that settled over me like a weight. Standing near the Atomic Bomb Dome, seeing the twisted steel and broken brick still preserved from that horrific moment in 1945, I felt a deep sense of grief. But what struck me even more was not the destruction—but the rebuilding. The life that now surrounds that very site. Parks, children laughing, clean walkways, blooming trees. Peace.
The Atomic Bomb Dome stands as a haunting reminder—and a symbol of hope.
Hiroshima is more than a city that endured tragedy. It’s a city that rose again—determined not to be defined by what broke it.
That spirit is something I felt throughout Japan. Resilience wasn’t just a historical fact—it was a living, breathing value embedded into the culture.
From ashes to architecture: the memorial arch frames the Dome in quiet reverence.
From bullet trains running precisely on time, to communities that bounce back after natural disasters, to economic transformations after hardship, Japan seems to practice the art of quiet, consistent renewal. There’s no need to proclaim it. It’s just… done. Over and over again.
Thousands of folded paper cranes sent from children around the world.
I saw it in small things, too. In the way every convenience store clerk took pride in their role. In the pristine condition of public spaces. In how even a modest bowl of ramen was prepared and presented with care. There’s a sense that whatever your job is—whether you’re a train conductor, street cleaner, or executive—you show up fully. And you do it well.
A long line at a local okonomiyaki restaurant. Respect and patience are cultural norms.
It reminded me of something I’ve learned—and often relearn—in my own life. Resilience doesn’t always look like a dramatic comeback or some grand gesture. More often, it looks like persistence. A quiet decision to keep showing up.
After cancer nearly took everything from me, I didn’t come back in some kind of Hollywood moment. I came back one small decision at a time. To walk a little further. To write another song. To run another mile. To share my story, even when it was uncomfortable. Over time, those small acts added up to something big. Something whole.
Japan helped me remember that.
A tree damaged in the bombing of Hiroshima—still alive, still growing.
It’s easy to romanticize resilience as heroic, and sure—sometimes it is. But what I saw and felt in Japan is that it’s more often about steady, quiet resolve. You may not notice it in the moment, but over time, it builds something stronger than before.
The flame will burn until the last nuclear weapon is gone.
So let me ask you:
What obstacle are you facing? And how can you keep showing up?
You don’t need to have all the answers today. You just need to take one more step forward. One more choice to try again. One more act of care. You may be surprised at how those small decisions will write your comeback story.
If Hiroshima can rise again—if a nation can transform pain into beauty, chaos into calm, destruction into innovation—so can we.
One step. One breath. One act of resilience at a time.