A Sense of Unease While Watching the Winter Olympics

The snowfall from the previous night stopped by morning, and I was able to attend the second day of the conference without trouble. The forecast—about five centimeters of snow—was accurate, and the day turned out to be bitterly cold.

Watching the Winter Olympics in such weather, I found myself noticing something that had bothered me before, but never quite this strongly.

 

Participation by non-white athletes in the Winter Olympics appears strikingly limited.

I had been aware of this for some time, but it stood out more clearly this time than ever before.

Perhaps this is because the recent Games were held in South Korea in 2018 and China in 2022, and this is the first time in a while that the event has returned to a predominantly white host country. The medal ceremonies, the athletes on the podium, even the women presenting the medals—all appeared overwhelmingly white.

Without host-nation quotas, the number of East Asian athletes is visibly smaller. I did not watch every moment of the opening parade, so I cannot say how many Black athletes participated, but in the glimpses I saw, there seemed to be very few.

Of course, people of diverse backgrounds could be seen in various supporting roles, but proportionally, that may simply reflect the nature of the event.

Winter sports are expensive by definition, and in that sense this imbalance may be inevitable. Skiing, skating, and sledding began as leisure activities and have been refined into highly specialized competitive sports. The effort and ingenuity behind that evolution are remarkable.

Still, when I look at the faces and skin tones filling the screen, I cannot help but feel a lingering sense of unease.

 

How Big Can Events Keep Growing?

 On a morning bound for an academic conference in Tokyo, I found myself watching the opening ceremony of the Milano–Cortina Winter Olympics over breakfast.
I left home before the Olympic flame was lit—aware that staying any longer would mean arriving late. Snow was forecast for the evening, and I was already wondering how I would get home. At the very least, I decided, I would pay the reception fee and leave early.

Watching large-scale events like the Olympics, I cannot help thinking about the sheer difficulty of running them.

Of course, these events are handled by professionals. Still, professionalism does not make things simple. Opening ceremonies can be planned down to the minute, but the actual competitions must contend with weather and uncertainty. The logistical burden is immense.

While the dedication of the athletes naturally draws attention, the people who support the event—quietly, efficiently, and often invisibly—deserve equal respect. It is work, yes, but work of a very demanding kind.

The same question arises when I think about academic conferences, whether those I attend or those I have organized myself. Why do such events almost inevitably grow larger over time?

Last year, I intended to keep things at roughly the same scale as the year before. Whether I succeeded is another matter; perceptions from the outside may have been quite different.

The Olympics face a similar dilemma. In theory, one could strip them down to something simpler, more restrained. In reality, that never seems to happen. Even academic meetings could probably function without elaborate social gatherings.

As I watched the opening ceremony, I found myself wondering how long we can continue to sustain events of this scale. At the same time, I began to think more seriously about the conferences I will soon be responsible for—and how large they truly need to be.

When a Mentor’s Words Suddenly Come to Mind

 While making a pathological diagnosis, certain phrases unexpectedly surface in my mind—words once spoken by mentors who taught me how to see, think, and decide. It feels a bit like a flashback scene in a TV drama, appearing without warning, yet at exactly the right moment.

 

When I am working on a pathological diagnosis, various words from teachers I would call mentors sometimes pass through my mind.

The feeling is similar to those sudden flashback scenes in television dramas or manga, where memories appear unannounced in the protagonist’s thoughts.

Some of these phrases are not original to a particular teacher but are well known among pathologists. A representative example is: “Always look at a specimen believing that there must be a finding.”
But there are many other words that also come to mind.

Over the years, I have been taught pathology and research by many pathologists. With each of these mentors came countless exchanges of words, many of which have become part of my blood and bones as a pathologist.

In fact, I wrote down only the title of this article after noticing this phenomenon during a diagnosis. However, I have since forgotten which case it was, which mentor it involved, and exactly which words came to mind.

Even as I write this now, I cannot quite remember.

It is an interesting thing.

Perhaps, during diagnosis, the brain is operating close to its limits—fully engaged, gathering every possible piece of information, including the voices of mentors. That may be why certain words emerge seemingly from nowhere.

The fact that I cannot recall them now may mean that I am relaxed, or that a different part of my brain—separate from the one used for pathological diagnosis—is currently at work. In that state, my mentors’ words may simply have no role to play.

We often describe AI thinking in terms of neural networks. Reading this back, I find myself oddly convinced that my own brain is doing much the same.

When Small Things Start to Irritate Me

 Lately, I find myself getting irritated over things that shouldn’t matter.
I know they are trivial. I know they will pass.
And yet, the irritation lingers, and I can’t quite explain why.

 

These days, I get irritated by small things more often than I used to.

I’m not sure why.
It could be the sheer volume of work, the constant noise of an upcoming general election with the same faces and voices repeated every day, or simply the cold weather. 

I honestly don’t know.

Poor manners on trains or careless driving are typical examples.
There is no point in getting upset over them, and I know that.
But once I start noticing such things, the irritation gradually builds.

Even if I say something, it will likely be ignored.
After all, they are strangers, and it is none of my business.
I should just let that moment pass. Getting angry serves no purpose.

If I could truly think, “People are people,” I should be able to let it go.
Yet somehow, I can’t.

They are not invading my personal space or disrupting my life in any real way.
They are simply doing something that catches my attention at the edge of my vision.
It isn’t illegal. It isn’t forbidden. In principle, they are free to do as they like.

As I write this, I keep asking myself why, again and again.
But the answer doesn’t come easily.

Thoughts and emotions always have their roots within oneself.
And yet, I cannot clearly identify the pattern behind this irritation.

I know that somewhere deep down, there is an idea of how people “should” behave.
I also know that I am not free from hypocrisy, judging others while overlooking myself.

Even so, the question remains:
Why do I get so irritated over such trivial things?

At the very least, I know this much.
Such feelings are unproductive and can become a burden not only to myself but also to those around me.
So for now, I will try to be more conscious of my words and actions.

Speaking Freely Is Also a Way of Living

 In politics, speech can be a double-edged sword.
Words that come too quickly may unsettle markets and people alike, while words that are weighed too carefully can leave a country frozen in place.

Watching political leaders today, I find myself wondering where the balance truly lies—and how that question reflects not only on governments, but on the way each of us chooses to live and speak.

 

 

What should we expect from political speech?
Carefully deliberated statements, or words delivered decisively, even at the risk of controversy?

Too much deliberation can turn leaders into statues—immobile, silent, and ineffective.
Too little, and words alone can send people, markets, and entire systems into confusion.
In fields like finance or national defense, either extreme can be dangerous. Yet there is no rule that says leadership must choose only one approach.

Ultimately, voters decide what kind of leadership they accept—and must live with the consequences of that choice.

Looking at the current U.S. administration under Donald Trump, it is not always clear which side it falls on.
Policy announcements appear rapid and relentless, but they may still be the product of careful calculation. Or perhaps, in moments of national decision-making, clarity and speed matter more than exhaustive deliberation.

Similar questions arise elsewhere.
Japan’s Prime Minister Sanae Takaichihas made remarks on Taiwan and currency policy that stirred debate. These comments likely rest on her long-held views, even if they strike listeners as abrupt.

Thinking about this brings me back to myself.

When I was younger, I spoke too freely.
That made me seem amusing to some—and deeply offensive to others.
Even now, I occasionally regret words that escape before reflection has caught up. I remind myself often to be more careful.

And yet, when I look honestly at my own habits, I realize something: the words that slip out most easily are not random. They reflect, in the end, my underlying view of life.

I tend not to overthink.
I speak what I believe, openly and directly.
If that is called being “loose-tongued,” then so be it. It is simply how I live, and it is not easily changed.

This blog is no different.
I write here every day, recording whatever comes to mind. There is no grand theory behind it.
For academic papers or conference presentations, I choose my words carefully and deliberately. This space serves another purpose.

In an age where blogs, conversations, and social media blur into one continuous stream of speech, the distinction may not matter much anyway.

Whether this article is right or wrong is beside the point.
Thinking, writing, and speaking daily—this too is part of my way of living.

One difference remains: blog posts can be revised.
Everyday conversation cannot.

That is something I should probably keep in mind.

Kindness Is Never Wasted

I had been struggling with the selection of speakers for an academic meeting.
After finally consulting a senior colleague, the situation now seems likely to be resolved.

Perhaps I should have asked for advice earlier.
Still, having wrestled with the problem on my own made me appreciate the help all the more.

 

I am regularly invited to give talks as a guest speaker at several study meetings.

There are certainly many people who are far more capable than I am, and who know much more than I do.
And yet, I continue to be invited.

I am not entirely sure how useful I am to others, but for my part, I learn something every time.
For that, I am deeply grateful.

Of course, the help I receive is not limited to my professional life.
At many moments and in many situations, I am supported by different people.

I recently wrote an article saying something like, “I am who I am thanks to everyone around me.”
The fact that I find myself writing about the same thing again today suggests that I may have begun to forget that gratitude, even if only a little.

I need to be careful.

There is a Japanese saying that kindness is never for the benefit of the recipient alone.
I hope that I, too, can remain—however modestly—within that ongoing cycle of kindness.

A Week of Mental Pause

 

Yesterday, I cast my early vote.
From that moment on, my single choice was sealed inside a ballot box for a week—out of reach, and out of my hands. 

 

Yesterday, I completed my early voting.
My single vote for the future government was locked away in the ballot box, where it will remain for a week.

Once that happens, my actions can no longer influence the outcome.
And with that realization, my interest in the election itself drops sharply.

The morning news I usually keep on as a kind of clock has now been replaced by campaign broadcasts.
Until last week, I let them play in the background without much thought.
This morning, I turned them off and switched instead to the noisy, restless chatter of commercial TV news.

The forecasts suggest a victory for the Liberal Democratic Party and Ishin, along with continued struggles for the political center.
That seems about right.

From here on, I will be extremely busy for a while.
I do not have the time—or the mental space—to dwell on politics.
Instead, I will use that time for myself.

Today, the first task is simple:
making a to-do list.