Living with a 62-year-old Japanese minimalist in his 200-square-foot Tokyo apartment revealed counterintuitive truths about success and happiness that Western culture desperately tries to hide from us.
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Picture this: cramped Tokyo apartment, barely 200 square feet, morning light filtering through a single window. No clutter, no excess, just a futon, a low table, and the quiet hum of a rice cooker. This was where I spent six months learning from Kenji, a 62-year-old minimalist who fundamentally shifted how I view success, happiness, and what it means to live well.
I'd gone to Japan partly for research, partly because my life in Singapore felt like it was suffocating under the weight of too much stuff and too many obligations. What started as cultural curiosity turned into the most transformative period of my life.
The lessons weren't always comfortable. Some days, I struggled with the simplicity. Other days, I wondered if I was wasting my time.
But looking back now, these nine insights have reshaped everything from my morning routine to how I approach relationships and work.
1) Empty space isn't wasted space
The first thing that struck me about Kenji's place was all the nothing. Coming from a world where every surface needs decoration and every corner needs furniture, the emptiness felt almost wrong.
But here's what I learned: empty space gives your mind room to breathe.
Think about your own home right now. How much of what you see actually serves a purpose? How much is just visual noise?
Kenji taught me that space itself has value. When you're not constantly processing visual clutter, your brain can actually relax. Since returning home, I've cleared about 70% of my possessions. My apartment in Saigon now has entire walls with nothing on them, and it feels liberating, not empty.
The mental clarity that comes from physical space is something you have to experience to understand. Your thoughts become sharper when your environment stops screaming for attention.
2) One task, one mind
Remember when doing one thing at a time wasn't considered weird?
In Japan, I watched Kenji prepare tea with complete focus. Just making tea. Not checking his phone, not planning dinner, not mentally reviewing his day. Just tea.
This connects directly with something I explored in my book, Hidden Secrets of Buddhism: How To Live With Maximum Impact and Minimum Ego. The Buddhist concept of mindfulness isn't about meditation apps or yoga classes. It's about bringing full attention to whatever you're doing.
I've carried this practice back into my work life. When I write, I write. When I run, I run. No podcasts, no multitasking, no background TV. The quality of everything improves when you stop dividing your attention.
3) Possessions are anchors, not treasures
"Every object you own owns a piece of you back."
Kenji said this while we were cleaning out a storage unit belonging to his recently deceased neighbor. Box after box of things that seemed important enough to store but not important enough to keep nearby.
How many things do you own that you haven't touched in the last year? Two years? Five?
Each possession requires mental energy. You think about organizing it, cleaning it, protecting it, and moving it. Even when you're not actively dealing with your stuff, it sits in the back of your mind like background apps draining your phone battery.
Since Japan, I follow a simple rule: if I bring something new in, two things go out. My life has become lighter in every sense of the word.
4) Morning rituals set your entire day
Every morning at 5:30 AM, Kenji would wake up, fold his futon, make green tea, and sit in silence for twenty minutes.
At first, the repetition drove me crazy. Where was the spontaneity? The flexibility?
But after a month, I understood. This ritual was liberating. By not having to make decisions about how to start the day, Kenji saved his mental energy for things that actually mattered.
I've adapted this for my own life. Wake up, no phone for the first hour, coffee, write for thirty minutes, then run. The predictability creates a foundation of calm that carries through everything else.
5) Saying no creates space for better yeses
In the West, we're taught that more opportunities equal more success. Kenji showed me the opposite.
He turned down most invitations, most projects, most possibilities. Not because he was antisocial or lazy, but because he understood that every yes means multiple nos to other things.
When you say yes to drinks after work, you're saying no to that evening run. When you say yes to another project, you're saying no to doing your current projects well.
Now, I decline about 80% of what comes my way. The 20% I accept gets my full attention and energy. The quality of my work and relationships has skyrocketed.
6) Eating is a practice, not a task
Meals with Kenji were events, even when it was just rice and pickled vegetables. No phones, no TV, no distractions. Just eating.
He'd take small bites, chew slowly, actually taste the food. A simple meal would take thirty minutes.
This relates to something I discuss in Hidden Secrets of Buddhism: How To Live With Maximum Impact and Minimum Ego about presence and mindfulness in daily activities.
When you eat mindfully, you need less food to feel satisfied, you digest better, and you enjoy more.
I've stopped eating at my desk or while walking. Meals have become breaks in my day, moments of actual nourishment rather than just fuel stops.
7) Silence is productive
The apartment was quiet most of the time. No background music, no TV for company, no podcasts filling the silence.
Initially, the quiet felt oppressive. My brain, used to constant stimulation, rebelled. But slowly, something shifted.
In silence, you hear your actual thoughts: Problems I'd been struggling with suddenly had obvious solutions, and creative ideas emerged from nowhere.
We've become so afraid of being alone with our thoughts that we'll accept any noise to avoid it. But silence is where depth lives.
8) Quality over quantity in everything
Kenji owned three shirts. But they were beautiful shirts, perfectly fitted, made from excellent material. He had one knife in his kitchen, but it was sharp enough to slice paper.
This principle extended beyond objects. He had maybe five close friends, but those relationships ran deep. He read fewer books than me but remembered everything from them.
When you stop spreading yourself thin across many things, you can go deep into a few things. Depth, I've learned, is where satisfaction lives.
9) Contentment is a decision
The most radical lesson came near the end of my stay. I asked Kenji if he ever wanted more. A bigger apartment, more variety, travel, experiences.
He smiled and said something that stuck: "Wanting more is a habit, not a truth."
We're trained to always want the next thing. The upgrade, the promotion, the better version. But contentment is available right now if you choose it.
This means recognizing that happiness isn't waiting in your next purchase or achievement.
It's a decision you can make with what you already have.
Final words
Six months in that tiny Tokyo apartment taught me more about living well than years of self-help books and productivity hacks.
The minimalist way is about clarity.
When you strip away the excess, what remains is what matters. When you stop trying to do everything, you can actually do something. When you let go of most things, you can fully hold the few things that count.
I'm back to splitting my time between Saigon and Singapore now, but I carry these lessons with me. My apartment is emptier but my life is fuller. I own less but experience more. I say no often so my yeses mean something.
The path to a meaningful life isn't about adding more. It's about clearing away everything that stands between you and what actually matters.
