People often ask me how I came to write about matcha, Zen, and the Samurai mind in English.
The answer is not a single dramatic moment, but a quiet accumulation of experiences—some intentional, some entirely accidental—that slowly formed a clear direction.
Looking back, I realize that my work today began much earlier than I ever expected, in places that had nothing to do with tea bowls or meditation cushions.
It began on the exhibition floor.
An Unexpected Beginning
When I was a university student in Canada, I returned to Japan during summer and winter breaks. Because my time at home was limited, I looked for work that was short-term yet efficient—positions that could be done intensively within a fixed period.
While searching for part-time opportunities, I came across a job advertisement for a wedding show modeling position. It was presented simply as a promotional role, and I applied in a straightforward way, without imagining it would lead anywhere beyond a temporary job.
I didn’t end up working as a wedding model. I was still a student, and likely not what they were looking for at the time. But I made it to the final selection stage, and instead, I received an unexpected offer:
Would you like to register with our agency?
At the time, it felt like a practical and sensible choice—an opportunity to access professional, short-term work during future stays in Japan. I registered with the agency, though while I was still a student, I did not take on any assignments.
I didn’t realize then that this decision would quietly shape the direction of my working life.
Standing Between Cultures
After graduating from university and returning to Japan full-time, I began working regularly through the same agency for a few years.
The work involved serving as a promotional model and interpreter at international trade shows and exhibitions. In Japan, these roles are often referred to as “event companions,” but the English term promotional model more accurately reflects the nature of the work.
These were professional environments where companies invested heavily in their brand presence—custom-designed booths, carefully crafted messaging, and thoughtfully created uniforms. My role was to represent those brands on the exhibition floor: welcoming visitors, presenting products, and communicating directly with an international audience.
Although the setting was limited to trade shows, the role itself was distinctly model-oriented. Appearance, posture, and presence mattered—but just as important was the ability to communicate clearly and confidently.
I spoke English, and that became central to my work.
Because of this, I was often assigned to positions that required direct interaction with overseas guests—explaining products, answering questions, and supporting communication between Japanese companies and international partners.
Sometimes I worked primarily as a promotional model.
Sometimes as a bilingual staff member or interpreter.
Often, I moved fluidly between all three roles.
Within the exhibition space, I worked in a highly visible, public-facing role—representing Japanese products, food, and culture to a global audience.
At the time, I didn’t think of it as anything particularly significant. The environments were polished and dynamic, and the work was engaging. But something important was happening quietly beneath the surface.
I was learning how to translate Japanese culture—not just language, but context.
Learning What Resonates
What fascinated me most was observing how people responded.
When I explained things using rigid, scripted information, the reaction was polite but distant.
But when I spoke more naturally—sharing small stories, sensory impressions, or the feeling behind a product or tradition—people leaned in. They asked more questions. They remembered.
I learned, without consciously trying to, that culture is not transmitted through facts alone. It is transmitted through presence, tone, and lived experience.
Food, in particular, had a remarkable effect.
When I talked about Japanese cuisine, tea, or seasonal customs, conversations slowed. People listened differently. The exchange felt human rather than transactional.
This was my first lesson in something I would understand much later:
Embodied culture speaks louder than explanations.
Why This Experience Matters Now
Years later, when I found myself drawn deeply into matcha, Zen philosophy, and the Samurai mindset, I realized something unexpected.
I wasn’t starting from zero.
I already knew how to stand at the intersection of Japanese tradition and a global audience.
I already knew how to communicate across cultures in public, professional settings.
I already trusted my ability to translate—not simplify, but reframe—Japanese concepts in a way that felt accessible and refined.
My earlier work taught me that people outside Japan are not looking for perfection or formality. They are looking for authentic access.
Matcha became a natural continuation of that role.
Preparing tea is not just a ritual—it is a language of the body.
Zen is not an abstract philosophy—it is something you feel.
The Samurai mind is not about aggression—it is about calm readiness.
These are things that cannot be fully understood through explanation alone. They must be experienced, even if only in small ways.
From External Performance to Inner Presence
There is an interesting contrast between my earlier work and what I do now.
Trade shows are outward-facing. Bright lights. Movement. Performance.
Tea practice is quiet. Minimal. Internal.
And yet, both require the same skill:
being fully present while holding space for others.
Back then, I learned how to remain composed, attentive, and responsive in highly visible environments. Today, I apply that same sensitivity when writing recipes, essays, and reflections.
The audience has changed.
The medium has changed.
But the role has not.
I am still standing between cultures.
I am still translating experience.
Why I Share This Story
I sometimes hesitate to talk about this part of my background, because it does not fit neatly into traditional categories.
It was not a linear career.
It was not planned.
And it was never about visibility for its own sake.
But it is honest.
And more importantly, it explains why I approach Japanese culture the way I do—calmly, practically, and without unnecessary mystification.
I believe that culture becomes alive when it is approachable.
That tradition survives when it adapts.
And that quiet practices—like preparing a bowl of matcha—often carry the deepest wisdom.
What began as a practical career choice eventually shaped my voice as a writer.
From exhibition halls to tea bowls, the path was never obvious—but it was consistent.
And it is still unfolding.
Author note
This essay is part of my ongoing work exploring how Japanese traditions—matcha, Zen, and the Samurai mindset—can support calm focus and embodied presence in modern life.
Thank you for reading,
Rie
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