Why have several friends stopped talking altogether since being laid off by ByteDance, Tencent, and Alibaba?

🗣️Chatting
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This article was converted by Jianyue SimpRead; the original source is www.zhihu.com

Original Answer

The top-voted answers are well-written, but fundamentally, they don’t directly address the question—and they mention neither major tech firms nor the mindset of people within these circles.

I’d like to answer head-on—both as someone embedded in this circle and drawing from my own authentic experience.

I previously worked at a North American start-up, ranked among the industry’s North American TOP tier. At the time, I served as head of Japan’s monetization business. Our team consisted of five people—all senior to me and all alumni of GAFA, bringing their own resources: a General Manager (GM), one person focused on acquiring new clients, another managing existing clients, one handling marketing—and then me. Back then, things were genuinely impressive. The North American HQ held me in high regard; I had abundant resources, excellent compensation, and significant authority. Almost the entire Japan team consisted of GAFA alumni—highly capable individuals—and the five of us essentially built the Japanese market for the company from scratch. Since no one in North American leadership truly understood Japan—nor spoke Japanese—they lacked familiarity with local business customs, customer logic, distributor relationships, or the advertising ecosystem. As a result, we often had to “educate” HQ in reverse—guiding them through what was actually needed on the ground.

But the cost was immense exhaustion. Tokyo, Canada, U.S. East Coast, U.S. West Coast—the time zone differences were hellish. After wrapping up work in Japan during the day, evening meetings from 7 p.m. to 11 p.m. were routine—and being called in at 2–3 a.m. to handle urgent issues happened more than once. Fully remote work meant generous benefits and simple interpersonal dynamics; everyone was intelligent—but overall, I existed in a state of chronic “low-grade burnout.”

Then came an utterly ordinary Friday. I walked into a routine one-on-one meeting in the morning—and immediately noticed something off about my manager’s expression. Sitting beside him was a blonde, blue-eyed woman clearly from HR. As soon as I greeted them, my manager—someone I was close enough with to share a pair of pants—began reading aloud a formal letter full of generic, template-driven, even vaguely fabricated reasons. Watching him read it, his expression was genuinely more pained than mine—I could practically hear his inner monologue: “Why do I have to deliver this?” and “What utter nonsense are these reasons?!”—and then, the final line: “Lay off.”

I was completely stunned. Just two days earlier, we’d been discussing where to go for our next team-building dinner—at some upscale restaurant. There had been absolutely no warning, no notice, no rumors whatsoever.

None. Not a single hint.

Keep in mind: I’m exceptionally skilled at building internal intelligence networks. Others usually come to me for intel—yet I hadn’t sensed a thing.

Immediately after the meeting ended, my laptop was remotely locked, and I couldn’t log into Slack anymore. Given my broad permissions, the company severed access instantly. In that moment, I felt a surreal absurdity—like, “Wait… so movie scenes really do happen to real people?”

The funniest part? I didn’t break down. I just sat there at my computer and laughed—because it was so absurd. Even Japanese companies typically give long advance notice before layoffs, yet here was a North American firm conducting a meeting in the morning and cutting you off by afternoon. My colleagues later frantically messaged me via LINE, asking why they couldn’t reach me. When I told them what happened, they were equally dumbfounded.

Looking back now, the most profound change that day brought wasn’t merely being laid off—it was my first genuine realization that many things we assume are stable, important, and worthy of investing all our emotional energy in are, in fact, inherently temporary. A company isn’t home; a team isn’t forever; a title isn’t you. When systems run at high speed, they generate a powerful sense of meaning: you feel vital, needed, part of something great. But the moment the system decides to remove you, it offers zero buffer. One day you’re in a strategic planning session; the next, your account is gone.

That sensation leaves you suddenly silent—because you begin to understand that much of the adult world’s “buzz” is simply temporary alignment along the same path.

It was also from that point onward that I increasingly grasped why many people who’ve been laid off by ByteDance, Tencent, or Alibaba tend to speak less afterward—not out of aloofness or pretentious depth, but because such experiences genuinely reshape one’s desire to express oneself.

Before, I’d eagerly showcase where I worked, what I did, my title, who I knew. Afterward, I gradually realized how little many of those things truly warranted talking about—because I’d witnessed both the system’s peak vibrancy and its instantaneous expulsion of people.

People who spend extended time at major tech firms often develop deep emotional ties to that ecosystem—it resembles a massive greenhouse, brimming with resources, networks, platforms, salaries, and social validation. Over time, one begins mistaking the power granted by the platform for inherent personal strength. So when one truly departs, many fear not income loss—but rather: “Who am I without this platform?”

That doubt cuts deep. Long-term exposure to big tech fosters a systemic sense of security. Sudden departure briefly strips away all coordinates—even prompting self-doubt: “Am I truly strong—or only strong because I stood behind that platform?”

And the smarter the person, the more likely they fall silent—because they’ve seen too much. They know much of what passes for workplace glory rests heavily on luck, timing, era-specific tailwinds, and organizational structure. Gradually, people stop engaging in daily banter—not out of despair, but because they’ve begun deconstructing illusions.

So your friends aren’t silent because they were laid off—you and the other answers to this question vastly underestimate the perspective and depth of thought possessed by people who’ve made it into these companies.

Most amusingly, top-voted answers depict them as pitiful, defeated strays.

Don’t overinterpret—and it’s not that complicated.

They’ve simply seen through the illusion, deconstructed the myth, and quietly moved on with life.

Because for the past two years, that’s exactly what I did—and only now have I realized these insights deserve sharing, to help others find meaning beyond work.

I’m currently at a TOP-tier foreign IT company—and honestly, I’m doing quite well. Yet I’ve markedly reduced high-intensity output among acquaintances—especially regarding work content. Sometimes even I don’t know why. Later, I reflected: perhaps it’s because people slowly realize that truly important things rarely require constant external validation—and that life’s greatest storms must ultimately be weathered alone.

With under five years of work experience, I already feel like I’ve completed a full cycle of “social university.” :sweat_smile:

Perhaps for this reason, I’m increasingly inclined to dedicate my time to the people and causes that truly matter.

Occasionally, I help friends or juniors review rĂŠsumĂŠs or discuss career direction and job transitions.

Because I’ve grown convinced that, more often than not, human disparities stem less from ability—and more from whether someone has already told you:

Which paths are actually dead ends,
Which pitfalls truly aren’t worth stepping into.

If you happen to be in Japan—or pondering foreign enterprises, IT, start-ups—or feeling lost in life—you’re welcome to chat.

I may not offer direct solutions—but perhaps I can help you avoid detours.

I’ll also check the comment section.

That’s all for now—if this reaches 50 upvotes, I’ll write more. Thanks!

May 10, 2026

Wait—what the hell happened in just one day?! …I have no idea which part hit your G-spot.

Alright, looks like this one needs 5,000 upvotes now… Otherwise, I’ll be stuck writing forever—and honestly, I’m a little scared! Still, thank you all for your support.

This time, let’s delve deeper—into what business truly is.

I’ve worked fewer than five years—and what I’ve genuinely learned over this period isn’t business—it’s people.

When I first joined foreign enterprises and major tech firms, I studied many things: how to “talk smart,” how to deliver compelling presentations, how to manage stakeholders, how to grasp foundational product logic and algorithms, how to build influence, etc.

At this stage, frankly, many of those things no longer preoccupy me.

Given my learning ability, I can master product fundamentals, core business logic, and technical skills in weeks—or even days.

But some things remain difficult—and they sound deceptively simple: interpersonal savvy.

Within the workplace context, this boils down to aligning resources, coordinating interests, managing emotions, and cultivating relationships. As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, I now spend my afternoons walking around with a cup of water or Earl Grey tea, chatting casually—and many problems either resolve themselves or cease to exist entirely.

Yes—it really is that simple. Yet many people with decades of work experience never grasp or intuit this truth. Young people often dismiss such skills as mere “networking”—but in reality, they represent the most valuable competencies.

Young people solve problems with technology; mature professionals first ask: How can I eliminate the problem altogether? Which approach is more efficient? Faster? More valuable to the company? The answer is self-evident.

Because the vast majority of business problems ultimately stem not from capability gaps—but from misunderstandings between people, generating communication friction and relational overhead. Why does Department A block you? Often not because they’re malicious—but because they face pressure, carry KPIs, and fear accountability. Many young people perceive business as aggressively “wolf-like.” Why won’t Department B approve Department C’s request—even though it’s technically discretionary? Because Department B’s leader is Japanese—and once, someone from Department C said something deeply wounding.

Many highly capable people around me understand only the bureaucratic system—bureau—yet remain blind to the living, breathing humans behind it. Such individuals are elite technicians—but AI will rapidly replace them.

This era demands glue employees: people who bind teams together—psychological anchors for colleagues—who also possess solid individual capabilities. These individuals become indispensable to corporate productivity and cohesion—especially in large organizations—and companies will never lay them off.

I was laid off primarily because North America experienced economic turbulence, prompting the company to cut markets outside its core—and Japan, having been operational for barely six months, was fully scrapped. My guess at the time was that HQ itself was undergoing mass layoffs—which proved true. Cutting JP was strategically convenient, since laying off HQ staff carried higher interpersonal costs. All five of us eventually returned to GAFA firms—or joined other foreign enterprises and start-ups. Under those circumstances, there was simply no recourse: however capable I was, relationships forged via screen-based remote meetings couldn’t rival the bonds formed through daily shared struggles across North America—a perfectly rational outcome.

Ironically, I found myself uniquely positioned to stay informed post-departure: thanks to extensive connections with HQ, I continued learning about company developments through friends in both Japan and HQ—further validating the centrality of human relationships. Moreover, over a year later, the company resumed expansion—and began recruiting again for Japan. They even reached out to me. Why? Because HR and hiring managers had collaborated with me before and retained strong impressions—my negotiation package didn’t burden them (I even helped draft the internal report HR needed to justify my unusually generous severance package to management—ha!). So they invited me back—ha!

I seem to have digressed—back to the main topic.

I’ve increasingly realized that truly sophisticated business isn’t about mastering rules and techniques—in fact, it’s the opposite: it’s about understanding people. Understanding others’ desires, vulnerabilities, fears—and what they truly strive to protect.

So why do so many fail at this? Fundamentally, it requires confronting one’s own ego. If someone cannot recognize their own desires, vanity, or fears, they cannot authentically respect others. Why does one person explode emotionally over trivial matters? Why do cross-departmental conflicts erupt daily in many companies? Often, it’s not the issue itself—but each person’s desperate need to protect their self. To prove they’re right. To avoid being invalidated. To cling fiercely to position and interest. Without self-understanding, perpetual conflict with others becomes inevitable.

Later, colleagues frequently remarked something intriguing about me: “You’re the least ‘business-like’ person I know—yet you’re the best at doing business.” Indeed, I lack traditional mercantile charisma.

That’s accurate—because I approach business as a social observer, guided by philosophical rationality and deep empathy. A colleague once jokingly called me the “gentler version of Ding Yuanying”—referring to the protagonist of the TV drama *Heavenly Dao.”

I dislike dominating others—and reject heavy-handed, paternalistic control instincts. From VP to intern, I treat everyone equally—authentic, empathetic, unified in heart and mind. This makes many people eager to talk with me, assist me, collaborate, and even confide internal company matters—or deeply personal vulnerabilities—which I carefully safeguard. Later, I reflected extensively: since leaving school, I stopped “grinding”; I no longer wish to grind. My inner self grew softer—and my professional capabilities naturally became less standout. Yet I’ve consistently encountered mentors and risen to rare positions among peers.

I suspect it’s because I’ve never truly regarded others as “resources.”

Because I believe nobody is stupid.

Humans possess innate sensitivity. People instinctively sense whether you’re using them—or genuinely interested in them; whether you seek to extract value—or sincerely wish to understand their story, their pain. Of course, we sometimes play roles and mutually leverage each other—that’s normal. Yet in today’s hyper-fluid, increasingly transactional world, authenticity grows ever rarer. Few people truly listen, seek understanding, or invest in lasting relationships.

I chat with VPs, GMs, and CEOs as ordinary people—because they are ordinary people. They experience anxiety, loneliness, self-doubt—and get yelled at by HQ. Titles are merely temporary social roles; people are not titles.

I’ve always disliked labels: CEO, VP, Manager—they emphasize our instrumental function while obscuring our humanity. Even “Tokyo University” (Todai) falls into this category. In student days, if someone brought up Todai, I might join the conversation—but now, I increasingly avoid it. Not out of denial, but because I see labels as reductive—they cannot define a person. A rich, complex individual cannot be captured by a school name or corporate title. You truly begin to understand someone only after prolonged conversation—reading their words, witnessing their pain, observing their choices, watching how they treat the vulnerable—only then do you think: “Ah—this is who they really are.”

Thus, I’ve grown increasingly reluctant to judge others by labels—because people are far more intricate than social identities suggest. And many truly exceptional individuals are far less “sharp” than outsiders imagine—instead, profoundly gentle. Because they no longer need to attack others to prove themselves.

The same applies to me. Earlier, I felt compelled to prove many things: my competence, my academic pedigree, my worth. Gradually, that drive faded—peaking sharply during my first year in the U.S., then collapsing precipitously. Because once you’ve truly acquired much, you grow quieter. You no longer need constant external validation. Instead, you begin asking: “How do I truly want to live?” and “What do I genuinely wish to leave behind?”

Now, I increasingly believe that ultimate value stems from authentic human connection, from mutual understanding, from genuinely helping others—because humans are social relations. We imagine we pursue money, titles, success—but often, what we truly crave is simply: to be understood, to be seen, to be treated with kindness.

That’s also why many people increasingly rely on AI these days—

Because in reality, few remain willing to truly listen to others.Everyone is too rushed, too busy, and too eager to project themselves. Much of today’s “chatting” isn’t real communication—it’s merely waiting for one’s turn to speak. In a sense, AI has, for the first time, allowed many people to experience what it feels like to be truly heard.

Yet even so, if given the choice, we ultimately still hope the person on the other side is genuinely human.

Because what people truly yearn for isn’t just answers.

It’s understanding.

Perhaps that’s also why I’ve increasingly found myself willing to spend time chatting with junior colleagues—helping them reflect on direction, offering perspective. It’s not because I’m some kind of saint; it’s simply because I’ve come to believe more and more that, in life, each of us must eventually confront ourselves.

You can escape through work, desire, consumption, socializing, or titles—but sooner or later, you’ll circle back to that single question:

“What do you truly want?”

No one else can answer that for you.

But the moment someone begins facing it honestly and earnestly—I believe their life has truly begun.

This update may sound unusually serious, but I trust some readers will understand—and resonate. I look forward to friendly, thoughtful sharing and discussion in the comments.

Feel free to share in the comments what topics you’d like me to explore next. Thank you!

If this post reaches 5,000 likes, I’ll keep going—I refuse to believe it! …… Seriously, Zhihu—a platform with virtually no traffic—is waking me up at midnight every day, chirping like a rooster demanding updates… :sweat_smile:
May 11 / May 13, 2026

Wait—what? Just yesterday I posted an intense, high-output piece—and today, after coming home from work, I checked Zhihu: already over 4,000 likes! That’s just one day… You guys really don’t want me to rest, do you? Is it still possible to raise the threshold to 10,000 likes? :joy:
May 13

This week’s been especially hectic—I haven’t had time to continue the series yet. Thank you all so much for your support. I’ve read many insightful questions and perspectives in the comments, and I have several ideas of my own brewing—I’ll write them out gradually.

May 14, 2026

Finally found time today—here’s the update.

Thank you all for your comments and likes. I’ve learned a great deal from the comment section myself—thank you.

There’s actually so much worth writing about that, ironically, I often end up writing very little—because there’s just too much to say, and I’m frankly quite lazy.

So, let me begin by briefly responding to a few questions raised in the comments:

First, two excellent questions below—I think they’re both brilliantly framed:

  1. When you chat with senior leaders, why do they bother talking to you? Typically, executives at the VP level are preoccupied with large-scale strategic issues—problems requiring a high-level perspective. And most bosses are extremely busy—so why would they voluntarily spend time unloading a problem they don’t expect you to solve or advise on?

I think what you’re really asking is:
Why would senior leaders willingly invest sustained time chatting with someone far below them in rank? What value do you actually provide?

And digging deeper, I sense your sincere, heartfelt confusion: Is human connection fundamentally transactional—or can something more authentic exist between people?

Here’s my take.

The phrase “people chatting in big tech companies”—the key word isn’t “big tech.” It’s “people chatting.” Many assume VPs talk strategy, Directors discuss organizational design, and Managers focus on execution—as if higher positions somehow strip away humanity. Over the past few years, I’ve heard countless people describe senior leaders this way: either angelic saints or merciless demons straight from hell (the latter accounting for ~90%, haha). But I’ve never bought into that narrative. Perhaps it’s because I studied philosophy and sociology earlier—I’ve always instinctively resisted “labeling people.” I don’t believe pure evil or absolute strength exists in reality.

They’re just people—self-interested, selfless, powerful, fragile, contradictory, twisted—and sometimes, oddly endearing.

One profound impression I’ve gathered from years in the workplace: the higher you climb, the lonelier and more vulnerable many people become. The higher the position, the more trapped one becomes within their role. Every word they utter gets interpreted; even their silence gets scrutinized. Their exhaustion can’t be casually shown; their doubts dare not be voiced aloud. Gradually, they cease being just a person—they morph into “the VP,” “the boss,” “the decision-maker,” “the resource holder.” But here’s the problem: when others consistently perceive you this way, you yourself slowly forget—you’re first and foremost a person.

So often, senior leaders choose to chat with you—not because you’re exceptionally brilliant, nor because you offer earth-shattering strategic insights—but because, with you, they get to briefly step out of that role. You’re not rushing to extract something from them. You’re not scrambling to prove yourself. You’re not gazing up at—or exploiting—their title. You simply see them as a person. This sounds abstract, yet in the workplace, it’s astonishingly rare. Most communication is inherently goal-driven: I need resources; you need support. I seek validation; you demand results. Everyone’s exchanging—but few are truly listening.

That’s why I’ve grown increasingly disenchanted with titles. Titles create a subtle illusion—that people are inherently hierarchical. Yet careful observation reveals: a title is merely a temporary position assigned by the system—not who the person is. VPs feel anxiety; GMs experience fear; CEOs endure loneliness. They doubt themselves, grow weary, and sometimes lie awake at night wondering: “What am I even doing?” They just find it harder to say aloud.

In a way, they live far less freely than I do.

So most of the time, as a manager, when I chat with a VP or CEO, we’re rarely discussing strategy—we’re talking about people. About fear, desire, exhaustion, loneliness—and how individuals gradually lose themselves inside organizations. Of course, this isn’t easy. When I worked at startups, I often chatted informally with CEOs and VPs remotely—for instance, as Japan Business Lead, I scheduled weekly 1:1s, deliberately reserving time for topics completely unrelated to business. Now, at a large multinational, with its sheer scale, I obviously won’t broach these subjects in formal meetings. Instead, I seize informal opportunities: coffee breaks, hallway run-ins—I’ll casually chat for 10–15 minutes with someone two or three levels above me (+2, +3), and sometimes, if the conversation flows, we’ll schedule a deeper follow-up.

Recent topics include: business philosophy, discussions on “what is the right thing to do” for the company—followed by laughter as we admit we both fall short. From corporate and business themes, conversations naturally drift toward love, family, friends, and life itself—in short, anything human.

These chats are fascinating—but require strong humanities/social science literacy and deep listening skills. I suspect it also relates to my job function: as a PM-like role, I engage in extensive cross-departmental collaboration and communication—making mine a uniquely fertile environment for such exchanges.

Writing this reminded me of last year: my salary doubled, and I joined a new company. Shortly after, my +2 was set to relocate to Australia as a major leader. During our final 1:1—devoid of any work agenda—we just chatted loosely. He asked, “Do you know why I hired you?” I replied, “No idea.” He said, “Your capabilities are certainly strong—but more crucially, it’s your ‘hito-kara’.” A Japanese term—I didn’t fully grasp it. Later, I asked a close Chinese senior colleague (a native speaker who’d attended Japanese middle school) for clarification. He explained hito-kara means “a person’s inherent temperament, foundational character, or the overall impression they convey.” In Japanese context, having good hito-kara means making others feel comfortable, sincere, reliable, warm—and interacting without pressure or intimidation.

So it seems I successfully conveyed what I intended—warmth. That’s deeply reassuring.

Getting slightly off-track again—back to the main point.

Why do I enjoy chatting about things unrelated to business, about people?

Because it helps me understand the person before me—and because those topics are intrinsically interesting.

Also—because they change nothing. They won’t suddenly improve my metrics, complete my tasks, or stop my boss from yelling at me.

Yet—paradoxically—they change everything. My boss still yells in meetings. Still performs for stakeholders. Still pushes me relentlessly. But afterward, in our 1:1, he’ll say: “Sorry you felt slighted just now—I had no choice; I needed to perform for others’ eyes.” The same leader—close to me, yet the one who ultimately laid me off—was exactly like this. Many leaders appear stern externally but harbor kindness internally. I’ve formed genuine friendships with numerous leaders: they protect me within their capacity, advocate for me, write glowing recommendation letters when I leave, and even refer me to new opportunities. I’ve rarely asked for these things explicitly—sometimes I’ve only mentioned them in passing, yet they’d respond with surprising seriousness, leaving me both embarrassed and deeply moved.

Gradually, I came to understand something fundamental: humans instinctively wish to help those who genuinely understand their pain, respect them, and truly see them. So I’ve grown increasingly convinced that the deepest human connection isn’t rooted in mutual interest or admiration—but in a fleeting yet authentic “mutual seeing.” In that instant, you’re not “the VP,” and I’m not “the employee.” We’re simply two people striving to live—with varying degrees of solitude.

I don’t need to witness how impressive you are, how wealthy you are, or how prestigious your background is.

I don’t even need to “see” anything specific.

I just need to look—simply, openly.

And that, precisely, is the hardest thing of all.

That’s my response to your first question.

  1. You say you love chatting with people around you—does that mean your job isn’t demanding or emotionally draining? How do you manage your core responsibilities—or do you view chatting as a source of emotional replenishment?

I used to think chatting was pure time-waste—so I’d default to email, messaging apps, or phone calls for work-related communication. But the more I experienced and reflected, the more I realized otherwise—because humans aren’t machines.

If someone treats themselves solely as a machine long enough, they inevitably lose sensitivity. And a person who loses sensitivity cannot, in the end, excel at business.

As I wrote earlier: business isn’t fundamentally about PPTs, processes, or KPIs—it’s about human flow. If you fail to understand people, you’ll ultimately become merely a high-spec executor. Short-term efficiency might soar, but long-term, you’ll hollow out. That’s why I now spend significant daily time sipping Earl Grey tea, wandering around, and chatting aimlessly—because I’m lubricating the organizational machine. Once sufficiently lubricated, many problems vanish before they even emerge. Some truths you’ll never learn in meetings—but in relaxed states, people unconsciously reveal genuine emotions: which department is under visible strain, which manager is nearing burnout, which team has started blaming each other, which project is already failing silently. These insights rarely surface in reports—they arrive through intuition.

An organization functions like a human body. Theoretically, weight should distribute evenly across both feet—but in reality, one side bears disproportionate load, and certain areas silently absorb immense pressure: budget teams, legal departments, operations, or perhaps a single manager carrying the entire team’s burden. Over time, this “body” develops chronic aches and pains. If you can detect overload early, you’ll pinpoint where the organization’s true problems lie—because all organizational issues first manifest as human states, then later crystallize into numbers.

So often, my chatting isn’t just about gaining “emotional value”—though yes, it does provide that, to some degree. Humans inherently need connection—and it must be authentic and joyful to be truly restorative.

Much fatigue stems not from workload itself, but from enduring prolonged states of being misunderstood, unable to speak truthfully, and maintaining purely functional relationships. You communicate constantly—but remain unheard. You express daily—but aren’t understood. You attend endless meetings—but never truly meet.

That’s why conversing with someone genuinely compatible can restore energy: in that moment, you needn’t perform, win, or prove correctness. You simply exist as a person, and the other allows you to do so. More precisely: in that instant, the person buried beneath roles regains the chance to speak as a human. Sometimes, sitting beside that person in comfortable silence—even saying nothing—feels profoundly peaceful.

Some might wonder: Is this sophisticated office politics? That circles back to my original “antennae” metaphor. Yes, there’s practical value—access to information, deeper organizational insight, awareness of shifting winds and latent risks. But humans possess intuition: others can sense whether you seek to use them—or whether you genuinely wish to listen, to understand their pain.

Thus, I believe good communication is essentially effortless reciprocity—not calculation. Because when immersed in suffering, it’s hard to perceive others’ pain—including our own. The more consumed by personal anxiety, the harder it becomes to truly see another. Yet if someone pauses—setting aside stance, interest, and role—to listen attentively for a few moments, that person remembers it for a long time. Not because of grand wisdom spoken, but because, in that instant, they rediscover: I am not just a cog in the machine—I am a living, breathing human.

So for me, the highest form of human relationship is also the purest: not mutual exploitation, not mutual admiration, not even so-called “networking.” The term “networking” is overly instrumental. Truly precious relationships occur when two people temporarily shed roles, lower defenses, and release the tension of *“needing to be a certain type of person”—*then quietly see each other. Perhaps this is the rarest commodity in the business world—not intelligence, not eloquence, not technique—but the ability to retain non-instrumental humanity within a hyper-utilitarian system.

That’s roughly it.

Another question, raised by a different commenter:
I find authenticity incredibly difficult. Climb too high, and sincerity curdles into blunt stubbornness; slide too low, and it devolves into naive, defenseless sweetness. Could you share how you strive for authenticity—and how you navigate that delicate balance?

Answer: I once believed authenticity was dangerous. The higher you rise, the more people you meet, the more complex relationships become—and the easier it is to distrust everything. Why does this person approach me? What does that statement really mean? Do they want something from me? Gradually, you grow hypersensitive, analytical—even prone to thinking “I see through everything, yet believe in nothing.” That’s exhausting.

Often, we imagine we’re seeing through others—but we’re actually viewing the world through our own fears. The more you fear exploitation, the more you interpret every relationship as transactional; the more you fear rejection, the more you hear ordinary remarks as attacks.

You grow utterly exhausted—because consciously closing your heart demands far more energy than allowing it to open naturally.

Conversely, if you abandon all boundaries—confiding everything to everyone, believing every word—this isn’t authenticity either. It’s weak boundaries; mistaking “I hope the world treats me kindly” for “the world will inevitably treat me kindly.” Reality doesn’t work that way. Human nature is intricate; relationships evolve; interests shift; many approach you for reasons far from pure.

Authenticity isn’t vulnerability without guardrails, nor naivety, nor thoughtless exposure of oneself to all. Mature authenticity means seeing complexity clearly—yet refusing to become cold-hearted.

So my practice is simple: I choose authenticity—but not fantasy. I engage others sincerely—but don’t demand equal treatment in return. I listen, help, and empathize—and strive never to harm others—yet accept that some relationships are merely temporary companionship, and some people walk with us only briefly. Authenticity requires no reciprocation; it’s choosing to live in alignment with myself. If I feel disappointed in others, it signals I’ve been expecting something. I ask myself first: What am I truly disappointed about? Do I need respect? Understanding? Or do I feel my efforts go unrecognized? Much human suffering stems not from others—but from our own fantasies about relationships.

All my principles now point inward. I’m authentic not because I demand the world be gentle—but because I wish to become such a person. How others respond is their responsibility.

The hardest part of authenticity isn’t “seeing human complexity.” It’s choosing to remain open after seeing it. Because repeated hurt triggers instinctive self-protection: packaging ourselves, testing others, controlling dynamics, performing competence—always striving to hold the upper hand in relationships. As long as we stay perpetually strong, calm, and never expose needs, we feel invincible.

But here’s the paradox: if you never reveal genuine needs, you’ll rarely be truly loved, understood, or approached.

To love and connect authentically requires vulnerability—and I cherish human vulnerability. I know opening myself carries risk of injury—but that very risk is my courage and love.

If I seal my heart entirely to avoid pain, I won’t shatter—but I’ll slowly lose the capacity to feel love. This may explain why many adults grow emotionally distant—not from malice, but from having endured profound pain.

So my current understanding of authenticity isn’t a technique—it’s softness born of clarity. Not ignorance of the world’s complexity—but choosing not to let complexity breed cynicism. Not blindness to human impermanence—but choosing to honor connections that were authentically real. The “balance” of authenticity likely lies here: the heart remains open, yet boundaries stay clear; I welcome closeness—but don’t surrender myself to illusion; I acknowledge your complexity—and allow space for our shared vulnerability. This state is difficult. Yet I believe: anyone who, after seeing much, still retains the ability to understand others, feel for them, and treat them gently—is already extraordinarily precious.

That’s about it—I’ll pause here.

Tomorrow’s Friday—wishing everyone a wonderful weekend. If time permits, I’ll write about topics I personally want to explore. Writing this Q&A has taken far longer than expected—ha!

A Note on Comments (May 14, 2026)

Many of you may have noticed: I’ve deleted numerous comments and blocked some users. Questions and support alike have appeared in the comments—I’ll briefly share my thoughts.

Many assume: if someone chooses public expression, they must accept all feedback—including malice—without reservation. Yet I’ve grown increasingly skeptical of this notion. Openness doesn’t equate to boundarylessness.

Moreover, in a sense, my answers and comment section constitute a space I’ve built, piece by piece. This isn’t a dumping ground for unchecked emotions—it’s more like a quiet corner where I write thoughtfully, reflect deeply, and exchange meaningfully with others. Thus, I hold the right to decide what stays and what goes.

I read every comment carefully—and many genuinely move me. People share personal experiences, engage in thoughtful debate, recount post-layoff realities, or simply leave a tender sentence. Even when views differ, I’m grateful—I sense sincerity, a desire to understand and share. Such exchanges add real value.

I now deeply value “incremental value”: Does your comment enrich the comment section—adding depth or insight? What defines a “good” comment section? Not uniformity of opinion—but whether the space offers something meaningful to others: a fresh perspective, a raw experience, a moment of being understood—or even just realizing “I’m not alone in this.” That’s already valuable. I love our current comment section: stories shared, questions asked, encouragement exchanged, even rational disagreement—all flowing forward. Commenters gain expression; answer-writers receive feedback; passersby glean reflection. In essence, it’s a win-win-win.

But some comments lack incremental value entirely—they’re pure emotional dumping. Phrases like “You know nothing,” “Who are you pretending to be?” “Code-switching doesn’t make you articulate,” “You’re too young to understand”—and countless other bizarre takes. These neither debate ideas nor share experience nor advance discussion—they simply hurl emotion at others.

That’s our era: not lacking expression—but severely lacking emotional digestion. Many suppress frustration, injustice, failure, and loneliness in daily life, yet lack the capacity to face themselves. So the internet becomes a vast emotional landfill. Whoever wounds them, they attack; whoever highlights their inadequacy, they try to drag down.

Why do people post spiteful comments despite disliking them? Because, in that instant, they feel “I exist.” The more someone avoids confronting their own pain, the more they rely on negating others to sustain self-worth.

I feel anger toward such valueless comments—but more often, compassion for their self-entangled suffering. Ultimately, resignation: I simply ask them to step away from me and my comment section.

After all, I bear no obligation to absorb these energies. I fiercely guard my attention and mental vitality—because life is defined by where attention flows. What you consistently watch, discuss, and respond to shapes who you become. So I rigorously protect my inner space.

I’d rather sit in silence, read a book, or gaze at the sky than waste time entangled with strangers’ malice. Life is finite—and I wish to devote my experiences, emotions, and attention to people and things I truly respect, care about, and wish to understand.

Others suggest: “Don’t delete—let everyone see life’s full spectrum.” Yet I disagree. Reality is already complex enough—daily commutes, work pressures, and life challenges expose us to life’s full spectrum. There’s no need to open the internet and invite further emotional contamination. I retain a quiet idealism: the internet should still host relatively clean, thoughtful spaces for genuine exchange—even if this contradicts mainstream internet trends, haha.

Still others say: “At least let us vent at them!” But venting adds no incremental value. It doesn’t deepen discussion or improve anyone. Mostly, it depletes everyone involved. I’m no saint—I feel discomfort too. So why force myself to endure it? Understanding others’ pain doesn’t mean importing their pain into my life.

A person’s internal state projects directly into their expression. Those rich in experience, stable in spirit, and worldly-wise may not all be gentle—but most exercise restraint. They know human complexity defies simplification; they needn’t belittle others to affirm themselves. Conversely, those chronically pained, angry, or fragmented often lash out—because they don’t see you, but their own wounds.

The internet is already loud enough. All I aim to do is preserve, amid this noise, a small space where people can speak like human beings.

Other Answers

For those interested:

Did you regret studying abroad in Japan?Is Academic Qualification Important for Employment in Japan?

What Is the Current Situation of Young People Across Different Social Strata in Today’s Society?

Why Does Job Hunting Feel Harder Now Than Before?

What Is It Like to Work in Japan?

Why Did You Go Abroad?

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