The Beauty of Letting Go and the Warmth of Kintsugi
There have been times when, due to my own carelessness, I’ve broken my favorite mug.
Some were treasures I carefully brought back from Japan, while others were rare finds from select shops here. They weren’t expensive, but they were limited editions—irreplaceable. Since I loved them so much and had such fond memories attached to them, I felt genuinely disappointed when they broke.
Sometimes, I still think, I should have tried to fix them somehow… and feel a pang of regret. I’m not usually someone who clings to material things, but when it comes to something I truly loved and know I can never get again—whether it’s a dish, a piece of clothing, a book, or a photograph—I can’t help but feel attached.
People who advocate minimalism often say, “You can always buy a new one,” but that logic doesn’t apply to things that can never be replaced.
Marie Kondo, known as "KonMari," became a household name in the U.S. through her Netflix show and bestselling books. Her famous phrase, “Does it spark joy?” was everywhere for a time. However, the idea of decluttering by keeping only the items that spark joy has always felt a bit rigid to me. There were moments when I discarded something because it didn’t “spark joy,” only to realize later, “Ah! I actually needed that!” and had to buy it again.
It turns out that I’m not alone—there are quite a few people in the U.S. who push back against the KonMari method. While minimalist, model-home-like interiors are admired, they often require ample storage space to achieve.
I also saw how Marie Kondo, now a mother of three, recently shared that she has “kind of given up” on keeping her home perfectly tidy and instead prioritizes enjoying time with her children. Many found this shift both refreshing and reassuring.
Rather than blindly following advice about what to keep and what to discard, perhaps the heart tells us something beyond just “joy.”
I, too, believe that in order to receive something new, we must first let go. This mindset of openness has been part of my practice for years. However, when something truly precious to me breaks, I ask myself—what does it mean to let go in that moment? This question has been a personal theme for me in recent years.
And in the midst of all this, whenever I come across the word Kintsugi, I feel a deep warmth in my heart.
The Beauty of Imperfection and the Wisdom of Kintsugi
Kintsugi has now become an English word and is highly regarded not only in Japan but also in the U.S. and other countries. More than just a method of repairing broken objects, the philosophy behind it—embracing cracks and imperfections rather than hiding them—has been widely accepted as a celebration of the beauty of imperfection.
It is also closely tied to concepts of self-acceptance and emotional healing. One of the world's leading medical institutions, the Mayo Clinic, features kintsugi on its website, describing it as follows:
For the Japanese, kintsugi is part of a philosophy that embraces human imperfection and the fleeting nature of life. It is a way of celebrating the idea that things do not have to be perfect. Kintsugi teaches us that we can overcome adversity in life with beauty and strength. Over time, wounds heal, and even with imperfections, we can become stronger. No matter the challenges we face, there is always a way to find meaning in life. Even when life feels broken, there is always a way forward. There is a way to embrace our imperfect selves and make peace with life.
"There is always a way forward.
There is a way to embrace our imperfect selves and make peace with life."
Such a powerful message, isn’t it?
That said, I feel like many Americans already live by this mindset without needing to be explicitly taught!
This reminds me of another story.
I once watched a video where Hikari Ota, a comedian from the Japanese duo Bakusho Mondai, shared an interesting anecdote.
A housekeeper working in his home accidentally put a yunomi teacup in the dryer, causing it to break into two pieces.
It turns out that this wasn’t just any teacup—it was a keepsake from Kuniko Mukōda, a well-known Japanese writer. The housekeeper was horrified and repeatedly apologized.
However, Ota reassured her by saying, "Mukōda-san wrote in her essays that when housekeepers handle things, it's natural that they sometimes break. So please, don’t worry about it."
Later, that teacup was beautifully repaired using kintsugi.