After a year of living in Japan, we recently moved into a new home. It wasn’t a move that shook our foundations or forced us into the unknown. Instead, it was a peaceful transition—a natural progression, like a modulation in life’s melody (a shift from one key to another in music, often introducing a new emotional tone), shifting keys while retaining familiar tones. Reflecting on this experience, I see how much it mirrors the broader nature of transitions: some are gentle and harmonious, others abrupt and disorienting. Yet each one asks us to listen closely, adapt, and find our footing in the new rhythm.

It feels fitting that this move happened in spring, a season when Japan’s cherry blossoms bloom in fleeting beauty. The Japanese concept of Mujō (無常)—the impermanence of all things—is deeply connected to this time of year. Cherry blossoms are cherished precisely because they are temporary, a vivid reminder that beauty exists in what cannot last. While Westerners often seek beauty in permanence, Japanese aesthetics find it in the transient, ever-changing. This appreciation for the ephemeral resonates with how I’ve come to understand transitions.

Packing up our dorm felt like closing a chapter—not just for us but for the space itself. There’s a responsibility in leaving well, ensuring what you leave behind is ready for those who will follow. This process demanded presence: sorting through what to keep and what to let go, making deliberate choices, and remaining focused even amidst exhaustion. It reminded me of something musicians know well—that transitions demand attention. Whether moving between chords (the harmonic shifts in a musical piece that build its emotional landscape) or homes, the way you handle the shift shapes what comes next.

Of course, not all transitions are as smooth as this one. Some arrive without warning—a sudden job loss, an unexpected move—and feel like direct modulations (abrupt key changes in music, often creating tension and surprise), plunging you into a new key without preparation. Others are gradual, so subtle you only recognize the change when looking back. Each type of transition brings its own challenges, but they all share one truth: resistance makes them harder.

In Japanese culture, there’s a deep understanding that transitions are not meant to be fought but embraced. The concept of *Mujō* teaches us to flow with change rather than resist it. This doesn’t mean transitions are easy; even peaceful ones carry uncertainty and fatigue. But when we release our grip on what was and open ourselves to what is, we create space for something new to emerge.

For me, this move was also a lesson in listening—not just to others but to the moment itself. Transitions require a particular kind of intelligence: the ability to pause, observe, and respond rather than react. It’s about finding the common tones (shared musical notes between keys that ease the transition) between where you’ve been and where you’re going—those subtle connections that make the shift feel less like a break and more like a bridge.

Our new home feels like that bridge—a space not just for us but for friends, art, study, and life itself. It’s a reminder that every transition holds potential—not just for change but for creation. Whether it’s arranging furniture, building new routines, or picking up a long-neglected passion, these small acts of care transform an unfamiliar space into something deeply personal.

If I’ve learned one thing from this experience, and from other transitions, it’s that how we approach change matters more than the change itself. Transitions ask us to be present, to listen deeply, and to trust that even when the path ahead is unclear, we have the tools to navigate it. They remind us that life is not static; it’s a series of movements, each one an opportunity to grow.

So if you find yourself in the midst of a transition—whether planned or unexpected—consider this: What would happen if you stopped resisting and started listening? What if you treated this moment not as an interruption, but as part of the song? Transitions may not always be easy or welcome, but they are inevitable. And within them lies the chance to create something new—to find harmony in life’s ever-changing rhythms.