There are moments in life when you stumble across something that feels like it was waiting just for you. There are times in life when you feel like you’re merely surviving, drifting through the days like a leaf caught in a stream, powerless against the current. For me, Ikigai: The Japanese Secret to a Long and Happy Life by Héctor García and Francesc Miralles was the moment the stream stilled, and I could see my reflection for the first time in years.
Before Ikigai, I was living a life filled with noise—constant movement, endless tasks, and a to-do list that seemed to grow faster than I could cross things off. I was busy, yes, but I wasn’t alive. I didn’t wake up excited; I woke up tired. I didn’t see beauty in the ordinary; I barely noticed the world around me. Ikigai found me at a time when I desperately needed to breathe, to pause, and to feel again. It wasn’t just a book—it was a lifeline, reminding me that there’s more to life than simply existing.
At its heart, ikigai means “a reason for being.” It’s the answer to the question we don’t always have the courage to ask: Why do I get out of bed each morning? But what makes this concept so special is its simplicity. Ikigai isn’t a grand, unattainable purpose reserved for the few; it’s found in the small, quiet moments—the things that make your heart feel light, the passions that keep you awake at night, and the work that makes time disappear. It’s not about chasing success; it’s about creating a life that feels meaningful, every single day.
The book paints a vivid picture of life in Okinawa, an island that boasts one of the highest life expectancies in the world. The elders there don’t live long lives out of luck—they live with intention, curiosity, and an unshakable sense of community. One story described how they wake up each morning with a clear purpose, whether it’s tending to their garden, practicing a craft, or simply spending time with loved ones. That image struck me deeply. I realized how often I started my days with dread, as if life were something to endure rather than embrace. I began to wonder: What would it feel like to wake up excited about the day ahead?
One of the most profound lessons in the book is hara hachi bu—the practice of eating until you’re 80% full. On the surface, it’s a simple habit for better health, but it’s so much more than that. To me, it became a metaphor for living with balance and mindfulness. It’s about leaving space—not just in your stomach, but in your life—for curiosity, for growth, and for the things that truly matter. It reminded me that life isn’t meant to be stuffed to the brim with tasks, noise, or even success. Sometimes, the most fulfilling moments are the ones where you let yourself breathe.
Another idea that resonated with me was the concept of flow—the state of being so immersed in something you love that time seems to disappear. It’s not just about doing what you’re passionate about; it’s about letting that passion carry you, like a river. When I read about flow, I thought of moments I had lost myself in writing or creating, feeling completely alive. But somewhere along the way, I had let those moments slip away, buried under the weight of “what I should be doing.” Ikigai reminded me that those moments weren’t just fleeting—they were breadcrumbs, leading me back to myself.
What makes Ikigai so heartwarming is its emphasis on community. The book beautifully describes how Okinawan elders thrive because they are deeply connected to one another. They don’t just live near each other—they live for each other. They have moai, small groups of friends who provide emotional and financial support throughout their lives. Reading this, I was reminded of the people in my life who have quietly been my moai—the ones who show up, who listen, who remind me that I’m not alone. It made me pause and reflect on those relationships, to reach out more often, to say “thank you” more sincerely.
The most transformative part of Ikigai for me was its message about purpose. So often, we’re taught to equate purpose with achievement, with climbing ladders and ticking boxes. But *Ikigai* showed me that purpose doesn’t have to be big to be meaningful. It can be found in the way you pour your morning tea, in the way you smile at a stranger, or in the way you do work that makes even a small difference. It’s not about changing the world; it’s about changing the way you see it.
I’ve also come to understand, thanks to Ikigai, that our passions are not static—they evolve over time. The book speaks of finding joy in the activities we love, but it also teaches that our ikigai is not confined to a single, unchanging goal. What we are passionate about at one point in our lives may not be the same as what brings us fulfillment later. And that’s okay. It’s a reminder that our journeys are fluid, and that it’s perfectly fine to reinvent ourselves as we grow. For me, Ikigai gave me permission to let go of the rigidity I had placed around my own ambitions. I don’t have to have everything figured out right now. I don’t have to be tied to a fixed definition of success.
For the first time in a long while, I realized that even in the most ordinary moments—sipping tea on a rainy afternoon, walking down a familiar street—there is purpose. We don't always have to be chasing something grand or monumental. The Japanese wisdom of finding joy in the little things gave me permission to slow down, to savor moments without needing to fill them with “more.” I started to pay attention to the tiny acts of kindness that go unnoticed in the chaos of daily life—the smile of a stranger, the comfort of a hug, or the peace of a quiet evening spent in reflection. The little things, as it turns out, are often the most important parts of life.
Another profound lesson that resonated deeply with me was the idea of aging with grace. In Ikigai, the authors share the stories of centenarians in Okinawa, the region with the highest number of people who live past 100. What struck me most was their approach to aging—not as a decline but as a natural progression, something to be embraced rather than feared. These elders are connected to their communities, remain active in mind and body, and find purpose in their daily lives. This idea shook me to my core, because for years, I had viewed aging as something to avoid, something that represented loss. But Ikigai taught me that aging doesn’t mean we lose our purpose—it means we refine it. Life isn’t over after a certain age; it evolves into something even more meaningful when we nurture our relationships, maintain our passions, and embrace each day as a gift. It made me want to approach each year with more enthusiasm and gratitude, as if every moment of life, no matter how small, has a reason.
One of the simplest yet most profound truths in Ikigai was the idea of balance. As humans, we’re constantly juggling work, family, social obligations, and personal goals, and it’s easy to lose sight of what matters. In a world that celebrates productivity and endless hustle, it was refreshing to read about the value of slowing down. The Japanese concept of wabi-sabi, which embraces imperfection, and the practice of hara hachi bu, eating until you’re 80% full, struck a chord. Life isn’t about doing more or being more—it’s about finding the right balance, the sweet spot where enough is enough. We’re conditioned to think that filling every moment with activity makes us “better,” but sometimes, it’s in the stillness, in the pauses between the chaos, that we find clarity.
Reflecting on these teachings made me realize how often I’d pushed myself to the brink of exhaustion in the name of productivity. But Ikigai gently reminded me that taking care of my mind, body, and soul is just as important as achieving anything. There’s a kind of radical wisdom in saying “no” to the constant rush, in giving yourself permission to rest, to reflect, and to simply be. This isn’t a weakness—it’s a strength. It’s a commitment to sustaining not just our lives, but the quality of those lives.
Since reading Ikigai, my days feel different. I’ve started noticing the sunlight streaming through my window in the morning, the way the wind feels against my face, the sound of laughter that lingers long after the joke is over. I’ve started asking myself, What makes me come alive? and I’ve given myself permission to follow the answers, no matter how small or simple they seem. I’ve stopped chasing a perfect life and started embracing the beauty of an imperfect one.
Ikigai isn’t just a book; it’s a reminder that life is a gift, even in its messiness and uncertainty. It taught me that the magic of life doesn’t lie in its length but in its depth. It’s in the moments that make your heart swell, the connections that ground you, and the quiet knowing that you are exactly where you’re meant to be.
If I could, I would hold this book close and thank it—not just for its wisdom but for its kindness. For teaching me that joy isn’t something to chase, but something to create. For reminding me that even the smallest moments can be extraordinary. And for giving me the courage to live a life that feels like my own. In every sense, Ikigai has become a part of me—a quiet, steady voice that will always remind me of what truly matters.
So, if you find yourself lost, tired, or simply searching, let Ikigai find you. Let it remind you of the joy hidden in the everyday, the magic in the mundane, and the incredible power of simply being. Life isn’t a race—it’s a journey. And Ikigai is the map that helps you find your way back home.