Staying Grounded in Japan– Rituals, Faith, and Finding Peace.

July 2025

Himeji, Japan

To be honest, Japan has been intense.

From the language to the speed of play, from the summer heat to the weight of expectations — everything here moves fast. Everyone is strong. Everyone is sharp. You either keep up, or you fall behind.

And for someone like me, who’s always been a bit of an underdog, it can feel overwhelming at times.

I’ve never been the most powerful, the loudest, or the most naturally talented. But I’ve always tried to be consistent. To be willing. To be present.

Coming here, I felt that old pressure again — wondering if I’m good enough, fast enough, tough enough to keep up. Some days, I still question if I really belong here. But there’s also this quiet part of me that says: you made it here for a reason. Just keep going.

In the middle of all that noise — the training, the drills, the daily rush — I started noticing something else. A different rhythm. Slower. Softer. Something I wouldn’t have noticed if I didn’t take the time to pause.

There’s a kind of peace here in Japan that’s very unique.

The sound of cicadas in the afternoon heat, the way people greet you with gentle bows, the quiet shrines tucked between modern buildings, or the simple act of enjoying a hot bowl of udon at the corner shop. Everything feels intentional. Even the streets — clean, neat, no unnecessary noise.

At the same time, life moves very fast here. In the mornings, you see lines of people heading to work, all moving quietly and efficiently. The trains come on time. The convenience stores open early. Everyone seems to know exactly what they’re doing. It’s fast-paced, but it doesn’t feel messy. It’s busy, but strangely calming.

The summer heat here is no joke. Afternoon training sessions can really take a toll on the body — sweat dripping, arms burning, and yet... it feels good. There’s something fulfilling about pushing through the discomfort with your teammates beside you. You look at each other and smile, like, we survived another day.

After training, sometimes I ride my bicycle through the neighbourhood. Nothing fancy — just small roads, stone lanterns, rows of houses with potted plants outside. People don’t stare, but they nod politely. It feels safe. And in those quiet moments, I feel this soft kind of joy — not the big, exciting kind, but the quiet, steady one. The kind that reminds you you’re alive. That you’re doing okay.

This whole experience — juggling pressure and peace, movement and stillness — has helped me stay grounded.

Eto = Ethel

I’m still figuring things out. For example, my name 🤣🤣🤣

Still learning how to stay motivated without burning out.

Still learning how to be grateful for where I am, while staying hungry for where I want to go.

But every day I wake up, get ready, and try again… I’m reminded that being here is a blessing. And I don’t want to take it for granted.

Training in the Summer Heat — and Learning to Embrace It

The summer here is no joke.

The heat wraps around you like a thick blanket, and it doesn’t let go. It’s hot — hot hot hot — from morning till night, and there’s no real escape from it.

Afternoon training can be brutal. The court radiates heat from the ground up, and you’re already sweating before the warm-up even starts. But there’s also something powerful about sweating it out with your teammates — pushing through drills, wiping sweat off our brows, and then walking home past rice fields and hydrangea blooms in full colour. No complaints, just nods and small smiles. Like, “We survived another one.”

The Japanese athletes I train with are next level. Their movement, their pace, their consistency — it’s really something. Every rep is sharp. Every drill, done with purpose. It’s humbling to watch, but also inspiring. Every day, I realise how much further I have to go. But instead of letting it discourage me, I take it as fuel. I want to grow. I want to match their level. Maybe even exceed it one day.

To keep up, I also go for runs when I can — early mornings or late evenings, when the sun isn’t as fierce. I don’t run for timing. I run to stay sharp. To stay fit. It’s quiet during those moments — just me, my steps, and the soft buzz of cicadas in the distance. These small solo runs have become a part of my rhythm too.

Even though it’s so hot, most people here dress fully covered — long sleeves, hats, and cloth arm protectors. At first, I didn’t understand why. Back home in Singapore, we usually wear as little as possible when it gets this warm. But here, it’s different. The layers actually help keep the skin cool and block out UV. It’s thoughtful and somehow, still looks put-together.

After training or a run, I usually stay indoors during the afternoon. The heat is too much, and recovery is important. I rest, stretch, eat, and just recharge. It’s only in the evenings — when the wind cools and the sun dips — that I head out again.

By then, I’ll make a stop at one of the many vending machines. They’re everywhere — beside parks, under trees, behind apartment blocks. A cold Pocari Sweat, Calpis, or even a bottle of lemon water always hits just right. And once in a while, I’ll grab an ice cream from the konbini — a matcha bar, milk popsicle, or Garigari-kun. That first bite after training? Best feeling ever.

Evenings are calm. I’ll pass by neighbours watering plants or children playing quietly near the swings. Nothing dramatic, just everyday moments. But somehow, they remind me that life here is made up of these quiet little patterns — simple, slow, intentional.

Even though I came to Japan for volleyball, the rhythm of summer — the sweat, the drinks, the silence, the effort — has become a part of me too. It’s tough, yes. But it’s also beautiful in its own way.

My Morning Rituals — A Quiet Start Before the Day Races Ahead

Most mornings, I’m up before the sun.

There’s something comforting about that stillness — before alarms go off, before the world starts moving. No messages to reply, no noise in the background. Just me, the cool air, and a few moments of quiet.

I use this time to pray. To realign myself. It’s not long — just a few minutes — but it’s precious. I talk to God about the day ahead. Sometimes I ask for strength. Sometimes I just sit in silence, knowing He hears me anyway. It reminds me that even though I’m far from home, I’m never truly alone. That no matter how heavy the day may feel, I have an anchor that holds.

Some mornings, I’ll write in my journal — just simple thoughts, prayers, reflections. Other days, I open the curtains and let the morning light slowly fill the room while I breathe and reset. And sometimes, all I need is a quiet cup of green tea to set the pace for the day. Something warm, simple, and steady — it helps me start from a place of calm.

Before heading out, I usually make a quick trip to the Lawson downstairs to grab my milk and sandwich. It’s a small thing, but somehow that short walk — the same shelves, the same cashier, the same quiet nod of thanks — gives me a sense of rhythm. It reminds me that even in a foreign place, I can build little anchors of routine.

After that, it’s off to training — three full hours of drills, movement, and sweat.

It’s not a fancy routine, but it’s mine. And in those early hours, before the day speeds up, I find clarity. It’s in these quiet, grounding moments that I remind myself why I’m here — not just to push hard, but to grow, to stay steady, and to move forward with heart.

Grateful for My Teammates

A new kind of family.

I’ll be honest — being in a foreign country, far from family, isn’t always easy. There are moments I really miss home — my parents, the sound of my brother knocking on my door, even the comfort of a hot bowl of instant noodles or hearing someone say “lah” or “can or not?” around me. Those small, familiar things suddenly feel so far away.

https://www.idefy.sg/post/unlocking-potential-emett-s-rise-in-water-polo

But God is kind. He’s placed people in my life here who genuinely care.

One of my teammates often gives me a lift to training in the morning. No need for many words — just a quiet ride and a small “good morning” — but it means a lot. Another teammate checks in when I look extra tired, or reminds me to drink more water after a tough session. We may come from different countries and speak different languages, but somehow, we understand each other.

On court and in the gym, we push each other hard. We sweat together, fall together, get back up together. From chasing down impossible balls to powering through the last rep in the weight room, there’s this unspoken promise — no one is quitting. The effort is real, and so is the bond. Every drop of sweat shared under the sun or inside the gym builds trust, respect, and something deeper between us.

Off court, it continues. We share lunches, dinners, and the small in-between moments that make life feel lighter. Sometimes we’re laughing non-stop; other times, we’re just sitting there too tired to speak, but still glad to be around one another. These meals aren’t just about eating — they’re about connection. Within those everyday conversations, we slowly open up. We talk about our goals, our homes, our worries, and the quiet things we’re each carrying.

We may come from different countries and cultures — actually, it’s just me who’s foreign — but somehow, we’ve found common ground. Despite the language gaps and different upbringings, we understand each other where it matters most. Different stories, one vision: to grow, to get better, and to succeed — together.

There’s something special about that. Even without saying it outright, there’s this unspoken promise between us — to keep going, to keep showing up, and to grow not just as players, but as people.

We may not be related by blood, but in this season, they’ve become like family. And for that, I’m deeply grateful.

Exploring Japan Bit by Bit — Evenings for Recovery and Bonding

Evenings are precious to me.

They’re not just for physical recovery — they’ve become a time to reset my mind, recharge emotionally, and quietly reflect on the day.

After training, I’ll shower, stretch, have dinner, and take time for simple body care. I do my skincare routine slowly, carefully — not just to take care of my face, but because it’s one of the ways I feel like myself again. Sometimes we wind down by sitting around with soft music while we talk about the day — nothing heavy, just small conversations that make the space feel warm.

Often, we cook dinner at home together — me and a few teammates. Nothing fancy. Sometimes it’s just rice, eggs, grilled chicken, and soup. Other times, someone might share a recipe from their hometown. The food is simple, but it’s made with heart. We chat while we cook, laugh over small things, and slowly, through these dinners, our bond grows stronger. It doesn’t feel like we’re just teammates anymore — it feels like we’re building a little home together.

On my off-days, I like to explore a little. Usually, I ride my bicycle around the neighbourhood — through sleepy streets with small houses and potted plants, past tiny stone lanterns, or into a quiet park where kids play and elderly neighbours water their gardens. Sometimes I stop by the castle to admire its structure, or just sit at the edge and observe how calm everything feels.

I also enjoy trying snacks from the convenience stores — things I’ve never seen before, like fluffy cakes, weirdly shaped chips, or seasonal drinks I can’t even read. Every small find feels like a mini adventure. It’s fun discovering new things on my own — even if it’s just a different flavour of milk or a new bento set.

I’m also slowly learning Japanese. One phrase at a time. It’s tough, and sometimes I mess up. But when someone smiles because I tried — even if it’s just a simple “arigatou gozaimasu” said with confidence — it’s worth it. These small steps remind me that I’m still growing, not just as an athlete, but as a person learning to live independently in a new culture.

Evenings may be quiet, but they’ve become one of the most meaningful parts of my day.

Why I Train Again — Even When No One Asks Me To

When I have extra time, I train again.

Not because the coach asked, not because anyone is watching — but because deep down, I want to close the gap.

I’ve seen how strong and fast the local players are. They don’t just train hard — they live with discipline. It shows in how they warm up, how they treat their bodies, how they stay consistent even when no one’s checking. Watching them has opened my eyes. It made me realise how much more I can do — not just physically, but in mindset.

So I train again.

Sometimes it’s a short session. Sometimes it’s footwork, or serving reps, or just conditioning. But I do it because I want to get better. Not to prove anything to anyone, but to improve quietly, steadily, day by day.

After every extra session, I reflect. I think a lot — maybe more than I should. I often ask myself:

If I could go back in time… what would I do differently?

Would I sleep earlier? Take recovery more seriously? Push myself harder? Be more consistent with the boring stuff?

It’s not regret. It’s a reflection.

Because I’ve come to realise that growth doesn’t always come from doing more. Sometimes it comes from thinking differently — from being more honest with yourself about where you are, and what it’ll really take to grow.

And for me, that means showing up — again and again — even when no one tells me to. Quietly. Steadily. Like an underdog who refuses to give up.

Still Grounded, Still Grateful

Through all of this — the heat, the drills, the language barriers, the quiet nights, and the long days of adjustment — I’ve found something priceless: a sense of grounding.

I’m learning to stay centred in my faith, rooted in gratitude, and hungry to grow.

Some days feel heavy. Some days, I question if I’m doing enough. But even in those moments, I remind myself: I’m here for a reason. I don’t need to rush everything. I just need to keep showing up — with heart, with humility, and with purpose.

This journey is bigger than me.

It’s about what I can eventually bring back to Singapore — not just medals or match stats, but mindset. It’s about becoming someone who can inspire, teach, and contribute — as an athlete, a future coach, and someone who truly understands what perseverance means.

To everyone back home cheering me on — thank you. To my family, who raised me with quiet strength. To my coaches, who pushed me when I wanted to give up. To my teammates and mentors, past and present, who believed in me before I believed in myself. To my friends — old and new — who still check in, who send a word of encouragement just when I need it most.

Your support carries me through the quiet moments no one sees.

The late-night doubts. The silent walks home. The solo sessions in the gym. Knowing you’re rooting for me — even from afar — gives me strength.

And to anyone walking your own path — I just want to say:

It’s okay to slow down. It’s okay to feel lost sometimes.

Because peace is also progress. And sometimes, the most powerful form of training… is learning to be still, and listen.

I’m still learning. Still growing. Still grounded. And always, still grateful.

"Wherever this journey takes me, I hope I never lose the quiet strength I found here — in faith, in sweat, and in the stillness between every step."

Love

Ethel (UDA)

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