change is often quiet

Happy new year my lovelies. 2026 is now upon us, padded footsteps in snow, catching most of us unawares.

Changes as of late have been very much like this, a quiet affair.

Take birthdays for instance. Where I found myself mentally kicking and screaming at my oh-so-scary 25th, I barely glanced up from my soufflé pancakes to acknowledge my 26th.

To be fair, turning 25 felt especially scary.

You’re on your final year of 3-year rail passes, young royal opera house offers, and other transitional nods from society that mark you off as a special subclass of adult. After that, there are no more hedges that can cushion you from bad decisions or sort-ofs to help you shoulder some responsibility. You’re no longer a “young adult”, but just an “adult”. Plain and simple, no prefixes attached.

By 26, you’ve already made peace with the fact that you’re no longer in “early twenties” territory.

In fact, you’re just grateful that you’re not quite nearing 30 (yet).

During our annual snowboarding trip last month, most of us noticed that our interest in the sport was waning.

“I think we can still go, but just less often, like every 2, 3 years maybe,” O suggested.

“We can still go somewhere else together over Christmas,” M piped up.

Being at the ripe age of 26 with a sometimes achy lower back, right shoulder and right knee, I agreed wholeheartedly.

And with that, our 15+ year long tradition came to an end. Every year, same people, same ski resort, same traditions — ordering apple juice at Kakashi on our first night; gossiping in the outdoor onsen till our lower halves are lobster red; recording ourselves singing Happy Birthday to Auntie R on the ski slopes; having omu-rice at Steamboat and tempura udon at Horn; watching the fireworks, skiing santas and torch show (“forest fire”) on Christmas Eve over corn soup; taking sticky pics that make us look like kawaii aliens. Rusutsu has seen us grow from squabbling children playing ANTM to angsty teenagers with a crush on our Kiwi ski coach, to uni students confused about life and now to still-confused adults who complain about taxes.

I always assumed there’d be a big event that would mark the end and fittingly trigger the collective consensus that this is the last official annual trip ever, complete with big send-offs and dramatic goodbyes. But we didn’t have any of that, just a slow petering out, an off-hand comment acknowledged, and a bittersweet smile before hopping on the bus.

This is how change is often like. It creeps up on you, quiet, unassuming. Much like Hikaru playing Go at home half-asleep on just another typical day, not registering that Sai has vanished for good until it was too late.

I don’t notice the passage of time day by day. Or when I do, I only measure it in terms of seconds, minutes, hours (tiny increments) of which there seem to be an endless supply. Time seems inconsequential, mere hands on a clock or blocks on a Google Calendar.

Then there are those moments when the landscape visibly shifts and you see the full effect of months, years, decades — like bumping into someone I haven’t seen for years, and they’ve grown their hair five inches longer and put on ten kilos, or hearing a strange voice at the door and realising that it’s just my baby cousin, but with a voice three octaves lower.

Like a river rolling over a rock day after day, liquid time has been wearing my body down, changing its shape. A new cherry angioma near my inner right elbow, a white hair that’s just visible at that one angle, an achey lower right kneecap after I skate.

I knew someone who kept a Memento Mori calendar. He had a paper version lying around his office, and at the end of every week, he’d cross one of 29,000 squares out. I would stare, with a mix of fascination and horror, as I’d watch row after row of white become black. It was the passage of time made visible, visceral. The gaping maw of time with its insatiable appetite. No longer are we dealing in seconds, minutes and hours, but months, years and decades. What are we to time but momentary flickers across centuries and millennia. This is time in its true form, in all its grandeur and power.

Over the past year, I’ve seen big life changes unfold for people around me — friends quitting their jobs, friends getting engaged, friends moving halfway across the world to a completely foreign place, friends putting down a mortgage.

Everything is in flux, and I’ve noticed changes in myself as well. I’ve always craved intensity, but have mellowed out as I’ve grown older. I use to harbour grandiose visions (carefully tucked away) about making a huge mark on the world, though as of late, I feel a quieter desire emerging, one of living a simple and happy life, spent doing the things I love with people I love, and growing in the ways I want to grow.

But I remain the same in some ways. I am more Marianne than Elinor. I cry easily and smile just as easily. I can only deal with uncertainty in sips. I still harbour an irrational love for Japan. I get stressed about all the wrong trivial things. I overthink. I wear my heart not on my sleeve but wrapped all around me like a cloak for all to see. I am deeply romantic, a dreamer, and far more naive than I should be. I live for stories and beauty. I’m sensitive and sentimental — I couldn’t dissect neither a koala nor its baby.

And what about you, dear friend? In what ways have you changed, and in what ways are you still the same?

To end this letter, I thought I'd share some of my winter favourites from this past month:

• Abigail, Magda Szabó [novel]
  • A gorgeous novel with bleak undertones, set in Hungary during WWII. One of the best depictions I’ve encountered so far on what it means to grow up.
• The Age of Innocence, Edith Wharton [novel]
  • My first ever Wharton and I am in love. She writes simply but beautifully. I do not like Newland Archer, and I can’t be mad at May.

• Hasui Kawase [artist]
  • Kawase is phenomenal at capturing the sensation of being in nature. I especially love his prints of snowy days. I've attached a couple of my favourites below and they all convey such different feelings. At Tenno-ji there is loneliness, on Yakumo bridge there is yearning, at the Hamlet of Hataori there is warmth and hope, and at the Golden Pavilion, one just feels completely frosted over by the cold ><

• When Life Gives You Tangerines [TV series]
  • I finally finished my first Kdrama! WLGYT is such a touching intergenerational piece. I literally bawled my eyes out every episode. My major takeaway is that I want to be a poet like Ae-Sun. Also Gwan Sik is just chef’s kiss.

• Raye [artist]
  • I'm obsessed with her RAH Oscar Winning Tears live performance. All her live performances are super fun to watch though! I love that she always performs with a Live Orchestra and that no two performances are ever the same.
• Tamagotchi (Gen2) [misc]
  • I managed to snag one at the airport on the way back from Sapporo. My tama is now a Takotchi — clearly I’ve been a bit neglectful of it during its toddler years, or perhaps I didn't discipline it enough — hence why it grew into a "unattractive, bad-mannered alien" (as quoting the instruction manual).
• Dry Bonsais [misc]
  • I went to visit my favourite store in Otaru again and bought my third dry bonsai (to give as a Christmas present). I seem to have a soft spot for windswept bonsais.

• Off-Shoulder Tops [misc]
  • I’m obsessed with ribbed foldover off-shoulder tops in the classic colours - red, white, and black.
• Sublime [misc]
  • I’ve had an account for awhile but only started using it more religiously over the past month or so. It's a great way to collect all the little tidbits I come across during the day (mainly random poems and quotes from books). I think it might replace my Obsidian.

I hope you have the most wonderful year ahead.

Until next time my lovelies,

Kelly