Have you ever felt like you’re living a slightly diminished version of yourself? Not because you lack ability or ambition, but because something invisible stands between you and the full expression of who you are?
For over twenty years, I’ve lived in Japan as an English speaker. I teach English, I socialize primarily in English, and I’ve built a life that functions reasonably well within these parameters. Yet there’s an invisible membrane that separates me from fully engaging with the society around me – my limited Japanese language skills.
The Self-Imposed Ceiling
When I first arrived in Japan, I assumed I’d gradually improve my Japanese. But life has a way of following the path of least resistance. I found work teaching English, had met my then-girlfriend (later wife) who spoke English, and settled into routines that rarely forced me beyond my linguistic comfort zone.
Over time, I began to notice how this language barrier shaped my choices. I cycle instead of navigating the paperwork and negotiations required for car ownership. I’ve stayed in the same modest apartment rather than seeking better housing, which would involve complex conversations with landlords and real estate agents. I shop at the same stores where I know the routine and required phrases.
Without consciously deciding to, I’ve allowed myself to become a kind of “second-class citizen” – not because anyone treats me that way, but because I’ve limited my own options to avoid the discomfort of linguistic inadequacy.
The Social Anxiety of Broken Speech
Being a people-pleaser by nature makes the language barrier even more challenging. I hate walking into a room and becoming the negative center of attention – the foreigner whose broken Japanese slows everyone down. There’s something uniquely disheartening about having to begin every interaction with what amounts to an apology for my existence.
It doesn’t instill confidence as a customer or potential equal when every shop visit or office interaction starts with “Sumimasen, nihongo ga jouzu ja arimasen” (Sorry, my Japanese isn’t good). These small moments of awkwardness accumulate over time, quietly reinforcing the message that I don’t fully belong here, that I’m always going to be slightly out of step with the society around me.
For someone who values harmony and ease in social situations, these daily micro-struggles can become exhausting, making it easier to stick with the familiar rather than venture into potentially uncomfortable territory.
The Mission Behind the Lessons
There’s a certain irony in my situation that I’ve come to recognize. As a child, I witnessed firsthand the power of communication – and more so, the consequences of its absence. Those early experiences instilled in me a deep belief in the transformative power of expression.
Now as a teacher, what truly motivates me isn’t hearing perfect grammar or flawless pronunciation from my students. What drives me is seeing them emerge from their shells, watching the subtle transformation as they realize they can express their true selves in another language. The moment when they stop translating in their heads and start actually thinking and feeling in English – that’s the real victory.
I want my students to have what I struggle with in Japanese – the freedom to be fully themselves, undiminished by language barriers. My teaching has always been about empowerment more than perfection. I’ve dedicated my career to helping others avoid the very limitations I’ve accepted for myself, at least the past twenty years.
The Florida Mirror
Years ago, while living in Florida, I worked alongside several Mexican men who had been in the United States for years without learning much English. At the time, I remember being surprised. “How could they live here so long and not learn the language?” I wondered, not unkindly but with genuine curiosity.
Life has a way of teaching us humility. Now I am them. Despite two decades in Japan, my Japanese remains rudimentary. I understand the daily negotiations they must have made – the jobs taken because they required minimal language, the services foregone because arranging them was too complicated, the social connections missed.
When you can’t speak the language fluently, you settle for second best in countless small ways. You don’t haggle for a better price. You don’t complain when service is poor. You don’t pursue opportunities that require complex communication. All those small concessions add up to a life lived within margins.
Small Steps Forward
It’s not that I’ve given up on improving. Since some life changes last year, I’ve committed to studying Japanese every morning. Today marks 406 consecutive days of Duolingo practice – at least 10 minutes each morning dedicated to slowly building my skills. The streak represents both a personal victory and a humble acknowledgment of how far I still have to go.
These daily lessons are small steps toward bridging the gap, though the distance between functional tourist Japanese and the fluency needed to fully navigate life remains vast. Each day’s practice is both an achievement and a reminder of the long road ahead.
The Professional Paradox
There’s an irony in being a language teacher who struggles with language. Every day, I help Japanese students navigate the complexities of English, encouraging them to push through discomfort and embrace mistakes as part of learning. “Be brave,” I tell them. “Just communicate.”
Yet I rarely take my own advice. My reticence with Japanese stems partly from professional pride – as a language teacher, I feel I should speak well or not at all. This perfectionism becomes another barrier, no less real for being self-imposed.
Sometimes I wonder how different my life might be if I lived in an English-speaking country again. I’m confident I would have a nicer apartment, perhaps drive a good car, navigate systems and services with ease. Everything is simpler when you can fully express yourself, when you can read every sign and understand every conversation.
Beyond the Barrier
Language barriers create a strange contradiction – they simultaneously provide an excuse for underachievement while restricting our ability to reach our potential. They create a comfortable bubble of limited expectations while cutting us off from fuller participation.
I don’t share this as a complaint. My life in Japan has been rich in many ways, filled with wonderful students, meaningful work, and beautiful experiences. But I recognize how language has quietly shaped my choices, often without my conscious awareness.
What About You?
If you’ve ever lived abroad or found yourself in an environment where communication was difficult, perhaps you’ve experienced something similar. Perhaps you’ve also made those small, daily choices to stay within your comfort zone rather than struggle through the discomfort of imperfect communication.
Have you experienced invisible barriers in your own life? Not just language, but any circumstance that has silently limited your choices? How might your life look different if those barriers weren’t there?
I’d love to hear your thoughts and experiences. Have you lived abroad? How did you navigate the language challenges? Or have you found other kinds of invisible barriers shaping your life choices?
