And as I continued guiding travelers from around the world,I learned something that no textbook or camera manual could teach me: The real key to creating a meaningful experience is learning to listen. At first, I thought guiding meant “talking”—explaining culture, describing food, filling the silence. But the more couples, families, honeymooners, and solo travelers I met,the clearer it became: People don’t remember facts. They remember how deeply they were understood. Little by little, I stopped rushing through my scriptand started paying attention—to their stories, their reasons for traveling,their anxieties, their excitement. And when I listened, everything changed. I learned how to read the room. How to sense when someone was tired, overwhelmed, or curious.How to shift a tour to match the guest’s energy, not my own plan. This wasn’t just customer service.It was a kind of human connection—the same kind that had first drawn me to Couchsurfing,to photography, to teaching. In time, I realized: Communication isn’t about speaking clearly.It’s about making someone feel seen. That skill—born from guiding thousands of guests across Tokyo—became another tool in my toolkit.Just as essential as English.Just as powerful as photography. And just as transformative.

If there’s one belief that has shaped my life more than any other,
it’s this: Learning can change everything. Not just improve things.But fundamentally transform who you are. When I was a teenager, it was English that opened the first door. I studied hard, and it led me to university. Later, it took me to Ernst & Young. Years later, when the world shut down during the pandemic,
it was photography that kept me afloat. Not by chance—but because I chose to learn,
to start again, even when everything felt uncertain. I learned lighting setups on YouTube.
I photographed takeout meals on my kitchen table. That scrappy effort turned into a business. Three hundred restaurants. Hundreds of chefs. A life reborn through a lens. Through it all, one truth kept resurfacing: Transformation takes courage. But with the right mindset—and a few new skills—
anyone can change their life. And I began to realize something even deeper.
I didn’t just want to transform my own life. I wanted to help others do the same. Because I know how terrifying it is to start over. To risk failure. To not know what’s next.
 But I also know the thrill—the joy—
of becoming someone you didn’t think you could be. That’s why I teach. Why I guide. Why I open my kitchen to strangers from across the world. Not just to show them sushi.
But to remind them—maybe for the first time—
that change is possible.
And worth it. 最

Not every client was welcoming. One owner screamed at me the moment I arrived—furious that I started setting up during lunch hours. The restaurant was empty actually. But his nerves were full, waiting for his hungry customers. Still, I didn’t flinch. I told myself: You may hate that I’m here, but I’m going to give you the best damn photos you’ve ever had. And I did. Every time I pressed the shutter, “Damn COVID-19!” “Damn COVID-19!” “Damn COVID-19!” —that’s exactly what I was thinking. Then there were the kind ones.
Nepali-run curry shops, the quiet heroes of Japan’s immigrant dreams. They always gave me a bag of food after the shoot.
Hot naan, rich dal, spicy biryani. Each one handed me a meal wrapped with humility and hope. I’d bring it home. My partner’d be waiting. We’d eat together, sharing stories and bites, often more food than we could finish. We had no money, no security—
but those meals were rich in every way that mattered. Shooting, eating, listening—
it was all blending together. I wasn’t just surviving. I was transforming. Every photo I took was proof:
I’m not done. I’m learning. I’m building something real. No virus, no angry shop owner, no hardship could take that from me. And with her by my side,
I began to believe I could create a life not just worth photographing—
but worth living.

When the world shut down in 2020, I lost everything I had just begun to build. Tourism vanished overnight. All my bookings were canceled. My dream of becoming a full-time guide dissolved as the borders closed. But I still had one thing: A camera. Before the pandemic, I had bought an entry-level camera. I thought that if I wanted to thrive as a guide, being able to take good photos for my guests would be a nice bonus. Then the emergency declaration hit. Restaurants sat empty. Owners were panicked. But food delivery apps like Uber Eats were booming. And I saw something. The restaurants needed culinary photos to upload online for the food delivery. So I focused. I dove into YouTube tutorials and taught myself how to shoot food. I learned how to set up artificial lighting in my tiny apartment. I practiced every day. I focused harder than I ever had before. Slowly, my photos started to look like the ones in magazines. And then, I started getting calls— From ramen shops, sushi counters, curry houses. I became the guy who made food look irresistible online. Over the next three years, I photographed dishes from over 300 restaurants. In the middle of a pandemic that broke the tourism industry, I reinvented myself as a food photographer—not because I had a business plan, but because I noticed a gap and focused everything I had into it. What started as a backup skill… Became the very thing that saved me.

In December 2019, I was guiding a group of college students from New York through Tokyo. As we strolled near the Imperial Palace, one of their phones rang—it was a call from his mother back in the U.S. “Put on a mask. Right now.
There’s a virus spreading in China.
It’ll reach Tokyo soon.” The boys looked shaken. Within minutes, they were walking through Tokyo fully masked. They even bought designer masks at Bathing Ape in Shibuya, smiling beneath the fabric. I watched them with curiosity, thinking:
“Isn’t that a bit much?” After all, it was just something happening in China… wasn’t it? I couldn’t have been more wrong. One by one, my bookings vanished.
First a trickle, then a flood of cancellations. By January 2020, I had nothing left on the calendar. The virus had landed in Japan. People were panicking. Borders were closing. Tourism had collapsed—completely. I had just quit my job.
Just stepped into what I thought would be a new chapter, full of promise. But the hope I held was slipping through my fingers like sand. Rent was due. My motorbike loan wasn’t going to pay itself. I had no income. No backup. And no one coming. So now what?