Why Japanese People Suddenly Snap — A Language Without Boundaries

Lately, I’ve been writing the same pieces in both Japanese and English.

And I’ve noticed something strange.

Japanese rarely requires a subject.

You can say “went out,” “think so,” “feels right” —

without ever saying who.

It just works.

That’s the nature of a high-context language.

In English, every sentence demands an I.

I think. I feel. I want.

That small “I” anchors the thought to a body.

It reminds you: these emotions belong to someone.

But in Japanese, you can skip it.

Not saying I often feels more natural — even polite.

A Language Where “I” Changes with the Room

In Japanese, one person can have several selves.

We switch between boku, watashi, uchi, jibun depending on the scene.

At work, I’m watashi.

With friends, I’m uchi.

With a lover, maybe ore.

Each version slightly shifts the outline of who I am.

Japanese, in other words, is a language that lets your “self”

reshape with the room you’re in.

⸻

And that’s why boundaries blur so easily.

Take something small — like when someone says,

“Can I borrow your sunscreen?”

In English, borrow implies returning.

But in Japanese, kashite (“lend me”) doesn’t necessarily carry that boundary.

You might lend it, thinking they’ll give it back soon,

and then it’s gone.

The borrower assumes it’s fine — “It’s just sunscreen, right?”

Nobody means harm.

But this is how soft language erases the edges between people.

⸻

In Japanese, there isn’t a clear line between

“yours” and “mine.”

Everything becomes ours, decided by the air of the room.

It can be kind — even beautiful.

But it also means people cross invisible borders without realizing it.

And when that happens, the person who’s been stepped on

often can’t say, “That hurt.”

So they endure.

And endure.

Until one day — they snap.

A Country That Raises Children to Endure

Japanese education, from the start, teaches children

how to live without boundaries.

Think of school lunch.

“You must eat everything.”

Even if you’re full, even if you dislike it —

you can’t leave the table until you’re done.

It’s framed as politeness, health, or gratitude,

but it’s really a lesson in suppressing your own signals

for the sake of harmony.

⸻

Saying “I don’t want this,” “I’m done,” or “I can’t”

quickly labels you selfish.

Over time, “how I feel” becomes less important than

“what everyone expects.”

Eventually, you stop noticing when your body says no.

You swallow the discomfort,

because that’s what good kids do.

⸻

Another core lesson: don’t quit halfway.

“See it through.” “Don’t give up.”

Sounds admirable — until you realize

you’ve been taught that leaving something

is a moral failure.

So we keep going — through clubs, cram schools, jobs —

long after we’re exhausted.

We don’t rest, we collapse.

We don’t leave, we break.

And when we finally do,

anger becomes the only language we have left.

Learning to Say “I Was Hurt”

Everyone gets hurt in relationships.

But in Japanese, it’s hard to put that pain into words.

We say, “It was kind of upsetting,” or “I felt weird,”

but the I is missing.

Who was hurt?

How deeply?

So later, we realize — “I was actually hurt back then.”

That realization itself is healing.

Psychology calls it awareness —

the act of naming your feeling with a clear subject.

⸻

In English, you’d say “I felt hurt.”

That I brings the emotion back into your hands.

You stop blaming others and start understanding yourself.

But in Japanese, saying just “sad” or “angry” is enough.

We communicate without claiming our feelings.

Saying “I was sad” takes courage.

But once you do, your boundary returns.

You can say,

“This feeling is mine,”

and mean it.

⸻

When a friend hurts you,

saying “You were wrong” makes them defensive.

But “I was sad” doesn’t accuse — it reveals.

They may not change.

But you regain your voice.

⸻

Japanese is a soft language.

It allows people to coexist in vagueness.

But blending isn’t the same as dissolving.

By saying “I realized,”

we draw a gentle line —

a way of being close without disappearing.

Anger as a Language of Recovery

People say Japanese suddenly snap.

But it’s never sudden.

It’s the final form of long endurance.

We’re taught that anger is impolite —

immature, disruptive, shameful.

So we become experts at suppressing it.

At disappearing politely.

But anger isn’t chaos.

It’s a boundary saying,

“This is too much.”

In English, you might say “That’s not okay.”

In Japanese, we swallow it as “Maybe it’s fine.”

The difference seems small,

but each swallowed no

eats away at the self.

⸻

When the boundary is gone,

anger is all that’s left to remind us

we still exist.

It’s not emotional failure —

it’s self-preservation.

⸻

Anger itself isn’t the problem.

The real problem is a society

that makes us suppress it until it explodes.

Instead of breaking,

we should be able to say earlier:

“I don’t like this.”

“I was hurt.”

Anger, used gently,

isn’t destruction — it’s recovery.

⸻

Maybe Japanese needs more “I.”

Less air, more self.

Not to become selfish,

but to stay honest.

Anger, after all,

is just the first word of a new boundary.

Even a trembling voice counts.

“I couldn’t anymore.”

That single line can make you human again.

In the End

Japanese is a kind language.

And that kindness can also wound.

For centuries we’ve valued blending in —

melting into the collective.

But maybe it’s time

to reclaim the parts of ourselves

that dissolved too easily.

To speak not just softly —

but clearly.