“A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.”
― George Bernard Shaw
There’s a strange kind of beauty in making a mistake so loud it echoes through the halls of your life.
I’ve done it. More than once.
Just yesterday, I was walking along the Yokohama Bay area. The breeze coming off the ocean was cool and steady, brushing against my jacket like a reminder that time never stops moving. The sun was dipping low behind the Landmark Tower, painting the skyline in warm, fading hues. Couples passed by, families laughed in the distance, and street performers played soft jazz near the Red Brick Warehouse. I had my camera in hand, snapping photos, but inside, my thoughts drifted deeper.
I started thinking about life. About the times I’ve spoken too honestly in meetings. The projects I launched that didn’t quite land. The bold ideas I said “yes” to before they were fully formed. And how, every time I acted loudly—unpredictably—some people blinked. Some stepped back. But in the long run, those were the very moments that moved my life forward.
There’s something about walking near the water that makes reflection feel more natural. It’s like the ocean accepts your contradictions. Your failures. Your hopes. And it gently reminds you: you’re still here. You’re still becoming.
Technical Independence:
I still remember when I told people I wanted to become an Android app developer.
Their reactions weren’t always kind. “Isn’t that a bit late to start something like that?” they’d ask. I wasn’t fresh out of college. I wasn’t part of a trendy startup scene. But I knew what I wanted. I saw the Android platform not just as a career path, but as a canvas. A place where I could build something real, something mine. So I kept going.
And now, years later, I make a living from Android. I’ve built apps with local-first databases, experimented with AOSP and custom environments, and even published a Linux-focused tech book. I’m not just part of the system—I’ve built my own. And that gives me the power to make mistakes loudly.
Because when you’ve built solid ground under your feet, you don’t have to cling to any single job, or any one group of people who “approve” of you. I can afford to try. I can risk failure because I know how to rebuild. That’s the gift of technical independence.
Long-term games with long-term friends:
When I organized philosophical meetups like Legacy Walk, I didn’t know if anyone would come.
Legacy Walk wasn’t your typical social event. It wasn’t about networking or trivia games. It was a slow, reflective stroll through the Yokohama Foreign General Cemetery, a historic neighborhood and quiet parks—an invitation to talk about the things we often keep buried: the meaning of legacy, the weight of regrets, or the quiet beauty of aging with grace. Many of us who joined were what society might call “socially vulnerable”—people who didn’t follow the traditional life script. People like me.
Some events were small. Some were awkward. A few were emotionally raw. But the ones who did show up? They opened up. We weren’t just walking—we were healing, listening, reclaiming meaning together. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I belonged. I wasn’t being judged for my path—I was being seen for it.
Legacy Walk reminded me that life isn’t just about chasing goals—it’s about building moments that matter. And the people I’ve met through those slow walks? They’re not just attendees. They’ve become long-term friends. Fellow travelers on a quiet, thoughtful path. People I can grow older with, and not feel behind. People who understand that meaning doesn’t always come quickly, but it lasts when it finally arrives.
Because that’s the truth of it: this is a long-term game. And I’m in it for the long term, with people who walk beside me, step by step.
Conclusion:
So maybe that’s what it means to grow—not to avoid mistakes, but to let them echo in the open air. To walk through life like I walked through Yokohama Bay yesterday—unafraid to pause, to feel, to think deeply.
Yes, I’m an Android developer. I love building systems, writing code, exploring the raw mechanics of technology. But I’m also human. I’ve carried regrets, wrestled with anxiety, and faced the quiet weight of feeling out of place in a world that often favors the polished over the real.
Still, I move forward—not in silence, but boldly. I speak up. I act. I create. And sometimes, I fail.
But even in failure, I’m not lost.
Because I’ve built a life with depth. With meaning. With motion. And with a foundation strong enough to keep walking on my own terms, in my own rhythm.
So if you’re reading this and you’ve ever felt behind, too old, too different, or too uncertain, know this:
Make mistakes loudly. Let the world hear you try.
Because somewhere between the crashing waves and the quiet clicks of your own code, you’ll find it—
your voice, your people, your way.
And that is worth everything.
