Prologue: Half a Year Unemployed, I Saw Japan of Thirty Years Ago in a Book
I’ve been unemployed for five months now, scrolling endlessly on BOSS Zhipin, and the only things that come looking for me are outsourcing gigs. Honestly, for the exact same work, the full-time roles gatekeep on degree and age — even ordinary positions demand a 985 or 211 school — while the outsourcing pay is slashed straight in half. Just thinking about it is pretty disheartening.
Slumped on the sofa flipping through Atsushi Miura’s The Lonely Society (《孤独社会》), I came to the passage about how, after Yamaichi Securities collapsed in Japan in 1997, full-time positions were downsized and temporary workers were everywhere — and I suddenly froze. What we’re living through now, Japan apparently went through thirty years ago. History never repeats exactly, but there are always places where it lines up. And the small things around me — the cluster of pet shops at my neighborhood gate, that warm little coffee shop on the corner, the enrichment-class teacher who remembers every child’s name — are really the truest face of this book.
From Possession to Decluttering: Five Eras Smashed Out by Crisis
In the book, Miura divides Japan’s consumer society into five eras. Honestly, these didn’t evolve slowly — they were all smashed out by economic crises and changes in the work environment. That road, from everyone consuming frantically to gradually contracting, from always wanting to possess more to learning to declutter, isn’t just Japan’s past; it’s also our present life.
The earliest Taisho-modern era, the postwar years when everyone piled onto buying the “three sacred treasures,” and later the days when people began competing over brands and chasing individuality — we all have some sense of these. Just as the book says of the third consumer era, even Seiko’s watch ads ran the line “Why not switch up the watch you wear?” Back then, people were always trying to find their sense of existence through buying things, using brands to mark out status. It’s just like some people today: chasing new products, buying luxury goods on installments, spending most of half a month’s salary just to show off on WeChat Moments, treating non-essentials as must-have treasures — really just trying to fill the emptiness inside with consumption.
But in 1997 Japan, the bubble burst, hope was gone too, and suicides exceeded thirty thousand for ten years running. Full-time positions had absurdly high barriers, temporary workers gradually replaced full-timers — which is exactly the same playbook as the outsourcing glut and the difficulty of finding work at 35 that we face now. And so Japan entered the fourth consumer era: people stopped fixating on “owning,” renting whenever they could, sharing whenever they could, and secondhand goods grew more and more popular. They no longer chased “the bigger and more expensive, the more face,” and instead came to like a simple, durable, un-wasteful life. This wasn’t some sudden enlightenment; it was a choice ordinary people were forced into after unemployment, the rat race, and failing to make money — just as I only understood after being laid off that life just needs to be “good enough to get by,” and that most of the things I’d bought following the crowd were useless drains.
And now, we have actually entered ahead of schedule what Miura calls the fifth consumer era, whose core is the “loneliness economy,” along with the idea of the five S’s — put plainly: slower, smaller, softer, more social, more sustainable. The key point here is that “living alone” is an active choice, whereas “loneliness” is a reality we’re forced to accept because of declining birthrates and aging, and because people grow ever more distant from one another. Today’s merchants can no longer just sell goods; they have to sell emotional value, helping people fight off loneliness — and I see this plainly all around me.
The Warmth of the Loneliness Economy: Three Little Shops Near Me
At our neighborhood gate, along just a short stretch of road, three or four pet shops have opened, and most of the people walking dogs every day are young. This isn’t simply liking little animals; put plainly, today’s young people are just too lonely, with nowhere to put their emotions. Getting married costs three or four hundred thousand in bride price, plus a house and a car — you can’t even bring yourself to think about it; dating requires adjustment and compromise, it’s exhausting and mercenary; at work, outsourcing offers no security, there’s a wall between colleagues, and it’s hard to find any sense of belonging. So pets become the best thing to lean on: they don’t cost too much, don’t require you to curry favor or scheme, they keep you company when you’re lonely and cling to you when you’re sad. For young people like us living alone and hustling, that companionship is deeply healing. Those pet shops aren’t just selling dog food, cat food, and grooming supplies — they’re selling companionship, a warmth that can fend off loneliness.
Speaking of warm little shops like this, I think of the one across from my last company — right across from Luckin and Starbucks, not a big brand, and pricier than Luckin too. Take the orange-C americano: Luckin charges just 9.9 yuan, this place charges 14, yet its business is better than Luckin’s. The reason is very simple: first, the fruit in its fruit coffees is always freshly cut, never a half-finished product to fool people; second, the owner understands people’s hearts so well — he remembers every regular’s taste crystal clear. What’s more, I was laid off from that company at year’s end, and the The Lonely Society I’m reading actually mentions my former boss’s name right at the start. Before I left, I went to sit in the coffee shop; the owner could tell I was in a bad mood, asked a question, and I told him about being laid off. He didn’t fuss, just turned around and made me a coffee, saying it was called “a bright future ahead” (前程似锦), and in that moment the tight knot in my chest loosened a little. Miura says that the old kissaten cafés were not just places that made people happy, but places where, when you were low, you could accept your sadness and find yourself again. This little coffee shop is just like that — unlike Luckin or Starbucks, with only assembly-line output and cold self-checkout, caring only that you buy and not whether you’re in a good mood. Here, you can be seen, be understood, and when you’re sad you have a place to sit. That human warmth is something the chain brands can never learn.
Then there’s my child’s enrichment class, taught by Teacher Curry, who leads the kids in learning Lego, painting, and Chinese dance. Nowadays enrichment classes are everywhere and the course content is all much the same, yet I’m willing to keep following her. What moves me most is that she can remember every child’s name; every time we go, she warmly calls out the child’s nickname, not treating the kids as students on an assembly line, but truly treating each one as a unique little person. Miura also mentions in the book that in the fifth consumer era, only places that can accept a person’s sadness and are full of warmth will make people willing to spend. Teacher Curry’s class isn’t just selling a course; it’s selling attentiveness and warmth, a feeling of being valued and respected — which is why we parents pay willingly and even recommend it proactively.
The AI Accelerator: We’re Lonelier Than Japan
There’s another thing especially worth mulling over: our generation’s loneliness is even greater than in Japan’s fifth consumer era, because we have an added AI accelerator. When Miura wrote this book, there was no ChatGPT yet; his “one-person economy” was still things like convenience-store ready meals and Ichiran ramen. But now it’s different — we can chat with AI, have AI write copy, draw illustrations. Physically we’re alone, and in the digital world we’re even more of an isolated island. Japan’s loneliness was having no one around; our loneliness now is having people around, yet each of us scrolling our own phones, sometimes feeling that chatting with AI is more comfortable than chatting with the people beside us. Just like during my unemployed days, I too often passed the time scrolling my phone and discussing article structure with AI — efficient indeed, but truly lonely too. The algorithm understands you better than a colleague, is more patient than a friend, and knows how to say comforting things better than a partner; over time, the connection between people seems to matter less and less.
Self-Acceptance and Self-Healing: Keeping Your Own Rhythm in an Era of Contraction
Actually, Miura doesn’t offer any lofty method for turning things around, and Japan never did escape its “three lost decades.” But he offers some down-to-earth life advice which, combined with my own experience, put plainly comes down to learning self-acceptance and learning self-healing.
For example, moving from “must own” to “enough is fine” — just as we don’t chase new products or hoard blindly, renting what can be rented and not monopolizing what can be shared. It’s not stinginess; it’s seeing through the essence of “owning”: many things you buy and bring home gather dust after a few uses. For instance, some people buy the newest phone, get bored after three days of novelty, and are left with nothing but repayment pressure. Or, no longer paying extra for a brand logo, not fixating on big names — just like that little coffee shop, with no brand behind it, yet keeping people through heart and human warmth. Also, no longer fixating on checking in at faraway places: those city shopping malls all look the same and going there isn’t much fun anyway. Better to put your attention on what’s near you — take a walk in the neighborhood park when you’re free, sit in the little shop on the corner, chat a couple of lines with the owner, watch the young people walking their dogs. This real, everyday warmth heals loneliness better than any distant place. And also, don’t always chase efficiency, don’t get swept up in the efficiency of self-checkout and AI; leave a little time to “waste” — play with your child for a while, chat with a friend. These inefficient but warm moments are the best way to fend off loneliness.
Miura says that the premise of sharing is that everyone can be themselves; only by acknowledging that people are different and respecting each other’s differences can we truly connect with one another. Loneliness is unavoidable, but we can choose how to live with it. Just like me: I don’t consume following the crowd, don’t pay for vanity; I like going to those warm little shops to feel a bit of human warmth; and I understand the feelings of the young people around me who keep pets — that’s a pure companionship. Even just taking a walk in the neighborhood and saying “off work?” to a stranger is a kind of connection.
Thinking it over carefully, the road Japan traveled is one we’re traveling now: when the economy was good, everyone competed frantically in consumption; the bubble burst, unemployment and pay cuts came, hope was gone, and only then did people slowly wake up, stop fixating on possession, begin living a simple, low-desire life, and gradually enter the lonely society. AI hasn’t changed the direction on this road; it has only made loneliness easier to bear — but it can never replace the real connection between people.
Just like that cup of “a bright future ahead” at the little coffee shop, Teacher Curry’s warm greeting, the way the neighborhood pet brushes against you — these real, warm moments are our most precious power of self-healing in a lonely society. What we can do is, in this slowly contracting era, keep our own rhythm, accept loneliness without being trapped by it, and, in ordinary days, live out a life of our own that has warmth in it.
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