The first clap broke the silence, sharp and deliberate. It echoed through the crisp, cold air, carried by the stillness of the Fushimi Inari Shrine. I bowed, clapped again, and let my hands fall together.
The chill in the air bit at my skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of my home country, where 30-degree days felt like a constant embrace. Here, in Kyoto, Japan, it was eight degrees, the kind of cold that seeps into your bones, slowing your breath.
I closed my eyes and began to speak, quietly, just to myself.
“Please, let me hold on to what I’ve worked for. Let me stay steady. Keep my job safe, keep it growing. Let my business thrive, grow bigger, reach its full potential.”
I paused, the chill tightening my chest as I inhaled deeply.
“Let me have enough to live freely. To give freely. That’s all I want. Enough to take care of myself, enough to be generous to others. Enough so I don’t have to worry anymore.”
The words felt raw, stripped down. Honest. They weren’t perfect, but they were mine. The cold seemed to hold them in the air longer than I expected, almost as if the mountain itself was listening.
The shrine was alive with stillness. Vermilion torii gates stretched endlessly ahead, glowing faintly in the dim light of dusk. Each step forward carried me higher into the heart of the mountain, where ancient spirits felt as close as the frosty breath escaping my lips.
The trail twisted upward, the steep incline making every step harder. My legs burned as the gates blurred together, forming a fiery ribbon that led deeper into this sacred space. Each gate carried a name, etched in black, left behind by someone who had given. Someone who believed in the power of faith or gratitude or maybe just the act of offering something back.
I kept climbing, the cold tightening around me, the air sharper now. My thoughts swirled like the wind around the mountain, carrying me to a time not so long ago when I felt like I was falling apart. I remembered how it felt to have nothing—to feel like I was nothing. No savings. No stability. No confidence in myself.
I thought of the endless nights worrying about my future, about the days when even small decisions felt like life-or-death gambles. Friendships were slipping through my fingers, not because they wanted to leave, but because I couldn’t keep up—not financially, not emotionally.
But then I thought of what followed. The small, steady steps I took every day, even when I didn’t believe they would lead anywhere. And now here I was, halfway up a mountain in Kyoto, walking a path I never imagined for myself.
I stopped at a smaller shrine along the way, resting my hands on my knees. My breath hung in the cold air, visible, as if even that had weight in this space. The city lights flickered below me, distant and faint.
“If you’re listening,” I whispered, “thank you. Thank you for this moment. For letting me see how far I’ve come.”
The gates ahead seemed to shift, their shadows lengthening in the dim light. This wasn’t just a mountain. It wasn’t just a shrine. It was every moment I had doubted myself. Every time I had whispered a prayer, hoping for a way out. Every failure I thought I wouldn’t survive.
I took another step forward, the cold biting at my skin, the weight of the climb pressing into me.
The descent felt different. The path didn’t seem to end so much as dissolve into the night, folding back into the city below. The torii gates no longer felt like obstacles to pass through but milestones to reflect on. The ache in my legs grounded me in the present, but my thoughts drifted.
The prayer I had whispered earlier came back to me, but it wasn’t a prayer anymore. It was a realization, a loop across time.
“You’ve faced worse,” I thought to myself, remembering the version of me who was terrified of the future. “And you didn’t stop. You built this life. You can build the next one too.”
The gates blurred as I reached the base of the trail. The city streets were quieter now, the hum of life settling into a soft murmur. I stopped at the final gate and turned back to look. The mountain stood still, as it always had, as it always would.
Faith doesn’t have to belong to a specific moment or place. It isn’t just a prayer or a belief. It’s the way time folds in on itself when you finally see that you’ve been carrying the answers all along.
I stepped forward, into the cold night, into the unknown, into the next version of myself.