Coda

As the first page of my website reveals, I did not purchase my plushie during the height of Covid‑19, nor would I describe myself as particularly anxious about any economic or environmental crises. Looking retrospectively at my Japan trip, however, I must admit that I was also undergoing a personal “apocalypse.” At the time, I had been fortunate enough to be accepted into two graduate programs, yet I was also incredibly conflicted about which university to choose, as the decision would effectively dictate my life trajectory. A (very) small part of me even considered not choosing either school at all, as, after working at a corporate job in Hong Kong for eight months, I had finally established a rhythm and some degree of belonging; leaving meant leaving all of this behind. Thus, my Japan trip was more than a short respite from my corporate job; it was a chance to throw myself into an entirely foreign environment and, for a short while, disconnect from my family, friends, and colleagues so that I could thoroughly evaluate what I wanted for myself. Perhaps I also sought comfort in this plush toy, hoping that, whatever decision I made, it would be the right one.

Nowadays, my Hachiware kitsune doll sits in the corner of my desk in my Boston apartment. Whenever I look at it, I’m reminded of the anxiety, stress, and imaginary pros‑and‑cons lists that preoccupied my thoughts in that period of uncertainty. More significantly, though, it marks the fact that I did make a choice. Eight months have now passed since that trip, and the future I had been so distressed about has quietly taken shape around me: experiences, friendships, and new routines—a life I could not have imagined when I first picked up the plushie from its shelf. The plushie, more than offering assurance, has become a small, material proof that, at least for now, things have turned out all right.