The Invisible Script I Grew Up With
I grew up in a world where silence could say everything.
Where the sigh after dinner meant more than the words spoken during it.
Where “I’m fine” rarely meant “I’m fine.”
And where the greatest compliment was someone doing what you wanted — without you ever needing to say it.
This is the cultural fabric I was raised in as a Japanese woman. A kind of invisible script where people are praised for being able to sense others’ needs, feelings, and expectations without having to say them out loud. We even have a word for this: “察する” (sassuru) — to guess, sense, read the atmosphere. To anticipate what’s needed without asking.
It’s a beautiful concept in many ways. It builds harmony. It protects relationships. And honestly, it’s one of the things I still cherish about Japanese culture. But — and it’s a big but — once I stepped into the world of international work and cross-cultural collaboration, I learned something fast:
This skill, which once made me a “good communicator” in Japan… made me almost invisible abroad.
I still remember one of my first online meetings with a global team. Everyone was sharing updates clearly. Confidently. Directly. Then it was my turn. I gave a soft smile, nodded, and said something vague like, “It might be good to rethink this part a little, perhaps.”
No one responded. The meeting moved on. My point? Lost. My presence? Quiet.
And honestly? I felt small.
What I meant was:
“This current plan has a serious risk — we should probably rethink it to avoid delays.”
But what I said… didn’t say that at all. I was waiting for people to察して — to read my hint, to pick up on my tone, to decode what I was “really” saying.
But that’s not how it works in most global teams. No one is trained to read the air the way we are in Japan. If anything, people value clarity over subtlety, and directness over delicacy.
At first, I thought the problem was with them.
Why weren’t they more considerate? Why didn’t they ask follow-up questions? Why didn’t they try harder to read me?
But slowly, I realized — maybe I was playing by the wrong rulebook.
Maybe my silence wasn’t coming across as polite or gentle.
Maybe it just looked like… nothing.
And that realization stung.
I’m writing this not to criticize Japanese culture. I still use sassuru skills at home — with my kids, my husband, my Japanese friends. But when it comes to working or collaborating internationally, I had to rewire my instincts. I had to learn a new kind of communication muscle.
And that journey — from “察してほしい” to “making myself heard” — wasn’t easy. But it changed everything.
In the next part, I’ll share how I started to shift.
What I learned from Western colleagues.
And the small but powerful habits that helped me speak up — not louder, but clearer.
Because sometimes, being understood isn’t about volume.
It’s about choosing the right words — instead of hoping others will guess them for you.
From “Guessing” to “Saying”: How I Rewired My Communication Muscle
If you told me five years ago that I’d one day intentionally ask for what I needed, speak up in meetings, or even say “I disagree” out loud — I would’ve laughed.
That wasn’t me.
I was the quiet observer. The harmony keeper.
I thought being direct meant being rude.
But as I sat through more and more meetings where my ideas didn’t land, where my contributions were brushed past, and where my efforts seemed invisible — I realized something had to change.
It wasn’t just about learning English.
It was about unlearning something deeper:
The belief that “if they care, they’ll understand without me saying it.”
That belief, I now know, doesn’t always translate.
The First Tiny Shift: Owning What I Meant
My shift didn’t start with some grand transformation.
It started in the most awkward way possible.
One day, after a meeting, a kind American colleague messaged me privately:
“Hey, just wondering — when you said, ‘maybe we could rethink it,’ did you mean you’re concerned about the timeline?”
I froze.
I hadn’t even realized I was being that vague.
We ended up chatting for a bit. She was warm and curious, not judgmental. And then she said something that stuck with me:
“Your ideas are good, but I think some people just don’t catch them unless you frame them more clearly. You don’t have to be aggressive — just… more visible.”
That sentence lit something in me.
What Helped Me Shift? Three Practical Habits
So I started experimenting — slowly, clumsily, but consistently.
Here are three habits that genuinely helped me move from “察してほしい” to “伝える” in a way that felt authentic, not forced.
1. Use “I” Statements (Even If It Feels Selfish)
In Japan, saying “I think” or “I want” too often can feel ego-centered. But in global settings, it’s not selfish — it’s helpful.
It lets others know exactly what you’re bringing to the table.
Instead of:
“Maybe this part needs a bit of review…”
I began saying:
“I’m concerned this section might slow down development. I’d suggest we review it together.”
It felt unnatural at first, but the clarity it created? Instant.
2. Assume They Can’t Read the Air (Because They Can’t)
I stopped waiting for someone to ask me, “What do you really think?”
I stopped relying on silence, subtle tone shifts, or careful pauses.
Instead, I told myself:
“If I don’t say it clearly, it doesn’t exist.”
This mindset helped me step into conversations instead of sitting on the sidelines waiting for my turn.
3. Practice “Gentle Directness”
Directness doesn’t mean bluntness.
You can be kind and clear.
Some go-to phrases I practiced:
- “From my perspective, I’d suggest…”
- “One concern I have is…”
- “I’d like to offer a different take — would that be okay?”
These helped me speak up without feeling like I was being too pushy.
My Family Noticed Before I Did
What’s funny is that my family noticed the change before I did.
One night, my husband looked at me and said:
“You’ve been speaking up a lot more lately. Not just at work — even with me.”
And I smiled.
Because it wasn’t just about international communication anymore.
It was about reclaiming my voice — even in Japanese.
The Day I Stopped Making People Guess
There was one moment — small on the outside, huge on the inside — that changed everything.
It was during a project call with a team spread across five countries. Time zones were chaotic, accents thick, and opinions even thicker. I had spotted a potential problem in the design flow — something I knew would cause rework later.
The old me?
I would’ve waited for someone else to notice. Maybe hinted at it. Maybe softened my opinion into a vague suggestion and hoped someone picked up on it.
But this time — after weeks of practicing clarity — I took a breath and said:
“Sorry to interrupt, but I think this design flow might introduce a bottleneck.
Can I walk you through what I’m seeing?”
The room (well, the Zoom room) went quiet for a second.
Then:
“Oh — yes, please. Go ahead.”
I shared my screen. I showed the potential conflict.
I offered an alternate plan.
People listened.
They nodded.
They thanked me.
And the kicker?
After the meeting, my manager messaged me privately and wrote:
“That was super helpful. Thank you for speaking up — your input saved us hours.”
That’s When It Hit Me:
Not speaking up wasn’t humility.
It wasn’t grace.
It wasn’t kindness.
It was a missed opportunity — not just for me, but for the team.
I realized:
I had been making people work harder to understand me. I had been forcing them to read signals that were invisible in a multicultural context.
In trying not to disturb the harmony, I was creating confusion.
In trying to be “polite,” I was being unclear.
In trying to be liked, I was staying silent — and robbing myself of the chance to be trusted.
Cultural Harmony Isn’t Universal
I used to think that harmony meant avoiding conflict.
But in international teams, harmony is often built through alignment, not assumption.
Alignment comes from:
- Clear roles
- Open feedback
- Direct communication
None of which work if we’re all playing guessing games.
And once I truly accepted that the “air” I had trained my whole life to read — “空気” — doesn’t even exist in many global contexts, I stopped expecting others to feel it.
That freed me to start expressing myself in a way they could actually receive.
Kindness ≠ Silence
One of the biggest mindset shifts for me was this:
Kindness is not about hiding your opinion.
It’s about expressing it in a way that helps everyone move forward.
You can say “I disagree” and still be a kind teammate.
You can say “Here’s a concern I have” and still be respectful.
And sometimes, not saying it — just staying quiet, hoping they’ll察して — can feel like passiveness or even disengagement.
The Emotional Work Behind the Shift
This change didn’t just happen in my English.
It changed my heart.
Because for the first time, I saw my own voice not as a disruption — but as a contribution.
And the more I practiced, the more I started feeling something I hadn’t felt in a long time:
Belonging.
Not because I was blending in.
But because I was showing up as my full, clear self.
From Japan’s “Air” to My Own Voice: What I Found on the Other Side of Silence
After all the meetings, messages, and mindset shifts, one question kept returning:
“Am I still me?”
That might sound dramatic, but honestly, unlearning the Japanese-style “察して” habit made me feel like I was shedding a skin I had worn my whole life. I wasn’t just learning to communicate differently — I was living differently.
And I started noticing the ripple effects not just in global Zoom calls, but around my dinner table too.
A New Kind of Honesty at Home
In Japan, we often equate love or care with what goes unspoken.
You’re supposed to know when your partner is tired.
You’re expected to notice when someone’s upset, even if they say, “I’m okay.”
But one night, after a long day, my husband casually asked,
“You seem quiet. Something wrong?”
And instead of replying with my usual gentle,
“No, it’s nothing,”
I looked up and said:
“Honestly? I’m overwhelmed. I’ve been holding everything together for days, and I need help.”
There was a pause.
Then:
“Thank you for telling me.”
That one moment opened a door in our marriage.
Since then, we’ve both started naming our needs more often. Not perfectly. Not always easily. But intentionally.
Raising Kids with “伝える力”
I’m also raising a little boy in Japan — a culture that still values indirectness, politeness, and silence in the name of harmony.
But I’ve started doing something that’s not so common here:
I ask him to name what he needs.
When he says “you should know!” I gently tell him,
“I want to help — but I’m not a mind reader. Tell me, please.”
It’s a small thing, but I hope I’m giving him a tool I had to learn the hard way.
Because in today’s world, kindness without clarity can turn into miscommunication.
And politeness without honesty can become isolation.
“察してほしい” Is Not Wrong — But It’s Not Universal
Let me be clear:
I’m not here to say that Japanese culture is wrong. Far from it.
The beauty of “察する” is that it can build deep, silent trust. It makes space for subtlety and emotional intuition. I still use it with Japanese friends. I still read the room.
But now I choose when to use it — and when to switch to clear, direct expression.
Because in a global setting, being understood is not automatic.
It’s a skill.
A responsibility.
A bridge we build — word by word.
Final Takeaways (For Anyone Who Grew Up Reading the Air)
If you’re like me — raised in a culture where being “obvious” felt rude, where silence was a sign of care — here are some takeaways I wish I had known earlier:
💡 Clarity is not confrontation.
Saying what you mean helps everyone work better — including you.
💡 Your voice is a contribution.
Don’t wait to be invited. Step in. You belong there.
💡 You can be both kind and clear.
Politeness doesn’t require vagueness. Practice “gentle directness.”
💡 It’s okay to feel uncomfortable.
Growth always feels awkward before it feels empowering.
💡 Being easy to work with doesn’t mean being invisible.
Stop apologizing for taking up space. Start taking responsibility for your presence.
One Last Thought
When we stop asking others to read the air — and instead, give them something honest to hear — something changes.
Not just in how others see us.
But in how we see ourselves.
Not as people who quietly disappear in the background,
but as people who show up fully — voice and all.
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