CRISTY IN THE CITY

March is drawing to a close, and with it the celebrations of Women's Month. It is usually a time filled with tributes to strength, stories of progress, and reminders of how far women have come. Yet this year, as the month ends, I find myself reflecting more quietly—not only on the victories we celebrate, but also on the anxieties that shape the world we live in today.

It is difficult to speak of empowerment without acknowledging the unease that hangs in the air. The drums of war beat once again in the Middle East, and the possibility of a wider conflict—something people whisper about in terms as grave as a third world war—casts a long shadow over the future. The feeling is not unlike the ancient metaphor of the Sword of Damocles: a constant reminder that uncertainty is never far away.

In this age of artificial intelligence and endless connectivity, it is almost impossible to retreat into a bubble. News reaches us instantly and relentlessly. Each day brings reports of rising fuel prices, persistent inflation, political tensions, and a global economy that seems to shift beneath our feet. These are not distant problems reserved for policymakers and economists. They touch our daily lives—in the cost of transportation, in the price of food, in the quiet calculations we make about budgets and plans.

Living in such times requires a delicate balancing act. It is beautiful, even necessary, to look far into the future—to imagine possibilities, to prepare for what may come, to dream of a better world. Yet it takes discipline to remain rooted in the present moment. We must learn how to hold both perspectives at once: to plan ahead while still living fully in the day before us.

When I think about resilience in uncertain times, my mind often travels backward rather than forward. I remember the stories my grandmother and grandaunts shared about their lives during the Second World War. Their memories were not stories of grand heroism, but of everyday endurance—of making do with what little they had, of protecting their families, of carrying on despite fear and scarcity.

Those women lived through circumstances far more difficult than anything I have personally experienced. Yet they did not allow hardship to define them. Instead, they cultivated resourcefulness, courage, and a quiet determination to survive and rebuild.

Their stories remind me that resilience is rarely loud. It is found in the small decisions we make each day: to keep going, to adapt, to support one another, and to believe that difficult seasons will eventually pass.

Perhaps that is one of the enduring strengths of women. Throughout history, women have often been the quiet architects of resilience within families and communities. When times grow uncertain, it is our resourcefulness—our ability to adapt, nurture, and persevere—that becomes a steady anchor.

As Women's Month comes to an end, I find comfort in knowing that the tenacity of the women who came before me lives on in the present. Their courage runs quietly through the generations, shaping how we face our own uncertain times.

The world today may feel strange and unpredictable. Yet if the past has taught us anything, it is that resilience is inherited as much as it is learned. And in that inheritance, there is strength.

Spring was just around the corner-  a season meant for warmth, light, and open skies. Instead, Tokyo greeted me with kan no modori, the return of the cold. Just when the Yoshino sakura had reached their fullest bloom, winter quietly slipped back in.

Single-digit temperatures.

A grey sky.

A chill that lingered in the hands.

Last spring, I bundled myself into a warm Zara coat and headed to Nakameguro with a friend, determined not to let the cold steal the moment. Armed with Japan’s iconic transparent umbrellas, we walked down the district’s gentle slopes toward the Meguro River, where hundreds of cherry trees arched over the water in soft pink abundance.

There is something about traveling in less-than-ideal conditions that strips away expectation. Without the postcard sunshine, you begin to notice subtler things- the sound of rain tapping against plastic umbrellas, the hush of people walking slower, the intimacy of shared silence. 

Nakameguro Cherry Blossom Esplanade stretches along the river like a delicate corridor of blossoms. Branches heavy with petals leaned toward one another as if in quiet embrace. The chilly breeze carried sakura petals into the water, where they floated downstream in silent procession.

Cold hands. Warm sakura heart.

The rain deepened the colors. The mist softened the skyline. Lanterns glowed faintly against slick stone paths. Each breath rose visibly in the cool air, small clouds of warmth against the chill.

As petals swirled around us, it felt as though the trees themselves were leaning in — protective, gentle, almost tender. I felt embraced by the moment-by the season itself. 

The trees were hugging me, yes.

And in that moment, I understood something simple: warmth does not always come from the weather. Sometimes, it comes from presence — from choosing to walk forward anyway.

Here are the haiku I carried home from that morning:

Meguro River

cherry petals drift in rain

cold hands, a warm heart

morning mist and rain

lantern glow on slick stone paths

breath warms my chest now

Umbrellas whisper

petals float like confetti

cold fingers, warm smile

When life grows challenging, I close my eyes and return to that spring memory in Nakameguro. I remember the hush of rain, the softness of falling petals, and the quiet strength of stepping out into the cold rather than waiting for perfect conditions.

In a world that constantly urges us to wait for better timing, that morning taught me something simple:

Go anyway.

Walk anyway.

Bloom anyway.

And sometimes, carry a transparent umbrella-just in case.