The Book That Changed My Life

A Train Ride, a Book, and My First Big Revelation

Let me set the scene: It’s a gray Tokyo afternoon, and 19-year-old me is on the Chūō Line, flipping through the pages of Haruki Murakami’s Norwegian Wood. You might think, “Wow, how poetic—reading Murakami in Japan,” but honestly, at the time, I was reading it out of sheer peer pressure. Everyone on campus was talking about it like it was the secret to unlocking the mysteries of the human heart.

I was skeptical. What could this moody author and his melancholic characters teach me about the world? But by the time I reached the part where the protagonist, Toru, reflects on love and loss in raw, haunting detail, something shifted. There was a line—simple yet profound—that struck me: “If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.”

I sat there, staring out the train window, floored. This wasn’t about literary tastes; it was about so much more. It was about living an authentic life, choosing what resonates with you—not what society expects. It’s funny how sometimes the simplest statements hit you the hardest.

Love, Laundry, and Lessons from Murakami

Murakami didn’t just teach me about being true to myself; reading Norwegian Wood also gave me a crash course in the complexities of relationships. Relationships, I learned, are rarely neat or symmetrical. They’re messy—think of that one white sock that sneaks in with your dark wash.

Back then, I’d been dating a fellow Art History student who seemed perfect: shared interests, impeccable taste, and gifted at securing the best seats in galleries. But he was also emotionally unavailable. I’d spend nights analyzing his one-word texts like they were fragments of a long-lost manuscript. Reading Murakami helped me see that emotional inaccessibility wasn’t an enigmatic charm—it was just exhausting. Like Toru in the book, waiting for someone to open up can be draining, and sometimes the healthiest love is the one where both parties already show up with their hearts on the table.

Murakami’s prose didn’t offer some grand, sweeping resolution. But there was comfort in that—relationships don’t wrap up neatly, and not all love stories have happy endings. And that’s okay, as long as we keep showing up for love (and ourselves).

The Art of Slowing Down

There’s a quiet power in the way Murakami lingers on mundane moments. In Norwegian Wood, even something as small as making coffee becomes an act of self-care and stillness. As someone who grew up in the hustle and bustle of Tokyo, I rarely stopped to savor the details. My schedule was packed, my thoughts cluttered. It wasn’t until long after finishing the book that I realized how profound it is to slow down, especially when it comes to relationships.

In a world of instant gratification, where people ghost you before you even know their middle name, slowing down can feel radical. When I was living in Vancouver a few years later, I started doing this with someone I was seeing at the time. Instead of overthinking texts or rushing to define “where this is going,” I intentionally let things move at their natural pace. We drank tea instead of cocktails, walked along the seawall in silence rather than filling every moment with chatter. It didn’t turn into a grand love story, but it gave me clarity: not every connection needs to be rushed or forced.

Slow love—like slow mornings spent reading a good book—is often more meaningful.

Chapter Three: The Courage to Choose Myself

If Norwegian Wood gave me clarity about relationships, rereading it over the years taught me courage—specifically, the courage to walk away from ones that don’t serve me. You might be thinking, “Wow, Rina, you really made this about your love life, didn’t you?” And to that, I say: guilty as charged. But isn’t that what art does? It reflects back the parts of ourselves we’re too afraid to confront.

There’s this pivotal moment in the book where Toru has to choose: cling to the past or step tentatively toward the future. The first time I read it, I didn’t fully grasp the weight of that decision. But as I matured, I saw it as a metaphor for letting go—not just of people, but of toxic habits, insecurities, and outdated beliefs.

I used to think compromise was the hallmark of a successful relationship, but Norwegian Wood reminded me that losing yourself in the process isn’t compromise—it’s abandonment. Somewhere between my Tokyo upbringing, my Paris research trips, and awkward first dates in Vancouver coffee shops, I began to see walking away as an act of self-respect, not failure.

Murakami, Modern Love, and a Little Magic

If you told me back on that Chūō Line platform that Murakami would ultimately shape how I navigate love, I would’ve laughed and handed you a copy of Pride and Prejudice. But here we are.

Years later, when I moved back to Tokyo, I started seeing someone who loves books as much as I do. On our second date, he casually mentioned Murakami’s knack for capturing “the surreal in the mundane,” and my heart did a little flip. This wasn’t the type of connection you swipe for—it was the kind that emerges slowly, like a well-brewed cup of matcha. We didn’t immediately dive into deep emotional waters—we started with books, music, and the occasional shared silence. And it was from that foundation that something real grew.

Murakami doesn’t write sweeping romances or perfect endings. His stories are layered, ambiguous, and full of unanswered questions. And maybe that’s why they resonate. Because life—and love—is rarely perfect.

Final Thoughts: Your Chapter Awaits

If I could give my younger self advice, it would be this: don’t let the fear of an imperfect story stop you from flipping to the next chapter. Maybe your love life feels like it’s stuck between the world’s longest prologue and an endless footnote—but that’s okay. Life isn’t a perfectly plotted novel. It’s an anthology of moments, both fleeting and permanent.

The lesson I took from Norwegian Wood wasn’t just about love or loss; it was about showing up authentically—in relationships and in life. So go ahead: read the books that challenge you. Date the people who scare you a little. And when the time comes, don’t be afraid to close the chapters that no longer serve you.

Because somewhere out there, like a dusty old paperback on the secondhand shelf, the next great story—the next you—is waiting to be discovered.