Chapter 4: The Same Year Again

Thursday night. Same izakaya. Same corner table. Same zabuton cushions that don't quite cover the rotting tatami underneath. Four guys working through all-you-can-drink beers. Boss complaints. Working overtime. The custody situation nobody asks about directly. Someone mentions moving home. Someone else orders another round. Hours pass. Everyone feels better. Nothing actually changes.

This is a pattern you see with foreign men in Japan. Not everyone. Not always. But enough that it's worth recognizing. A peer group that started as a relief valve—a place to decompress, to sit with people who understood the confusion without needing it explained—slowly becomes the entire social world. And at some point, without anyone really noticing, it stops being a place where questions get asked and starts being a place where complaints get registered.

Over time, the peer groups and friendships foreign men form in Japan stop changing. They harden.

Alcohol plays a part. It's been social glue in Japan—and among men—for generations. Drinking gives you license to say things you wouldn't otherwise reveal. It's how a lot of men connect.

But alcohol isn't the reason.

The real subject is peer groups: who you end up with, why you stay, and what it costs when a support system quietly turns into a containment system.

The loneliness gets solved. The momentum doesn't. You're still showing up, still functional—but you're not asking new questions. You're not meeting people doing different things. Same job. Same conversations. Same frustrations. Round after round.

Why Men Fall Into This
When you first hit the ground in Japan, your social world forms from chaos. Someone from work. That guy you asked for directions. Someone squeezed next to you on the train. You make friends with friends of people you met once. None of it is predictable at first. It just happens.

This is natural. It's your tribe. You need it.

For the first year or two, these friendships work exactly as they should. You get advice about visas, about where to live, about situations you don't yet know how to read. You get validation. You get to laugh at things that don't quite make sense yet. You find people who nod along without needing the whole backstory.

The problem isn't how these groups form. It's when they stop moving.

The guys who started out asking questions stop asking them. They settle into answers that aren't really answers. They stay in the same job because leaving would require figuring something else out. They stay in the same social circle because it's familiar. They stay at the same language level, the same career band, the same relationship patterns. And the peer group, instead of pushing against any of this, quietly reinforces it.

Context matters more than personality. If your context is a group of guys all doing the same thing and complaining about the same things, you're going to keep doing the same thing and complaining about the same things. Your peer group determines what information enters your world, what opportunities you hear about, what seems achievable. And if that group isn't growing, you're not growing either.

Three guys at the same eikaiwa for five years. Same staffroom. Same complaints about the curriculum. Nobody's applied anywhere else.

The Context
Here's how the architecture operates.

Japan's drinking culture creates a permission structure: you can say things drunk that disappear when sober. Complaint and confession while drinking. Silence the next day. The vulnerability appeared and disappeared, and everyone pretends it didn't happen. Nothing needs to be addressed. He was drunk.

This cycle becomes the social mechanism. The group provides relief—real relief—but the relief doesn't produce change. It produces repetition. You can admit you hate your job every Thursday night for five years. The admission feels good. The job stays the same.

The English-speaking bubble operates differently but produces the same containment. You're socializing in English. Working in English. Dating in English, probably. You don't hear about job openings in Japanese companies. You don't meet people outside the teaching circuit. You don't get exposed to how things work in other industries.

Teaching English is entry-level work. It pays enough. Gives you time to figure things out. Except the peer group is all teaching too. Making similar money. Talking about "doing something else eventually." The guy who got his MA in TESOL three years ago still makes 280,000 a month. Still talks about curriculum development.

The work can matter to students. But the system doesn't promote it, doesn't stack rewards on it, doesn't build career capital from it. And when everyone in your circle is in the same system, you don't circulate information about anything else.

The peer group that solved loneliness becomes the mechanism that prevents the question from getting asked.

Warning Signs
Early on, these groups work. You ask questions. Share information. Someone tells you about a better apartment, a visa workaround, a side gig. Conversations move.

Then the questions stop. Same complaints. Same jokes.

Someone tries to change. Drinks less. Stops coming out as much. Starts studying seriously. The reaction isn't supportive. It's defensive. Why are you acting different? Can't you just relax?

Departures start to feel like judgment. If you're trying to do something different, it suggests they should be too. The pressure is to stay.

When leaving the group feels threatening to the group, you're not in a support system anymore. You're in a containment system.

Reality Check
Two, three nights a week drinking. That money goes somewhere. So does the time—hours every week in the same conversations, reaching the same non-conclusions. The relief is real. So is what it costs.

The friends you have determine the information you get. If everyone in your circle is doing the same work, you don't hear about other options. If everyone's stuck in English, there's no pressure—or support—to move beyond it. Closed loops don't generate new information.

Guy who mentioned moving home six months ago just mentioned it again. Left before the bill came. Back next Thursday.

What's structural: Japan's drinking culture isn't going anywhere. The English-teaching job market operates how it operates. Visa categories don't care about your potential.

What's choice: whether you build skills that transfer outside the bubble. Whether you develop networks beyond the people you met in year one. Whether you treat the peer group as a place to decompress or as the entire social architecture.

The peer group that solved loneliness can make change harder. Some men recognize this and leave. Some stay. Some don't see it at all. They keep showing up. The years pass. They're functional. Not falling apart. Just not going anywhere.

The same year again.

The Choice
It's about recognizing what your peer group does for you—and to you.

Some groups work differently. Someone mentions a problem—visa issue, job question, something they're trying to figure out. Someone else knows a guy. Information moves. Guy who reworked American infomercials about weird ab devices for Japanese TV—found that opportunity because someone in his circle knew someone who needed English copy. A year later he needed more products. Network kept feeding him leads. That's the mechanism: information circulates instead of complaints repeating.

A year later, two people from that group aren't teaching anymore. Nobody took it personally.

Those groups don't need you to stay the same. Someone stops showing up for a few months. Comes back. Group's still there. Sometimes they ask what you've been doing. Sometimes they don't. Either way, there's no pressure to explain yourself.

Other groups don't work that way. Someone mentions the same problem they mentioned six months ago. Everyone nods. Nothing moves. Someone tries something different—stops drinking, starts studying, takes a weekend trip alone. The group gets quiet. Or defensive. The question isn't "How'd it go?" It's "Why are you acting different?"

Both kinds of groups solve loneliness. Only one preserves momentum.

You can notice which one you're in. Listen for whether information circulates—or complaints repeat. Whether people are solving things or managing them. Whether someone leaving for a while feels normal or threatening.

The peer group that makes life bearable can also make it smaller. That isn't a failure of character. It's an architectural problem. Most men don't see the structure until they've lived inside it for years.

Some men stay and build other parts of their lives that grow. Some leave. Some look at the loop and decide it's fine.

All of those are choices.

The trick is knowing you're making one.