Warmth Over Correctness: The Power of Growing Together as a Family

In what moments do you feel "happy"?

When your salary goes up.
When you achieve a goal.
When you are recognized by someone.

Or is it when you hear the laughter of your family?

I have always chased after "increasing" things.

Money, results, experiences.
Being evaluated at work, getting a raise, and gaining more titles.
I believed that was what growth in life meant.

But, in the spring of my 44th year.

The moment I was told I would be transferred to Tokyo alone,
a small sandstorm swirled deep within my chest.

Even though nothing had changed from the outside,
on the inside, it felt as if everything was quietly crumbling away.

A sense of happiness that cannot be measured in quantity.
The feeling of losing the most important warmth struck my entire body, and I was stunned.

The "farewell of the heart" I witnessed at the Shinjuku Bus Terminal

Before moving, we went to Tokyo Disneyland as a family.

Even though it should have been a place overflowing with smiles,
a cold wind was blowing in the corner of my heart the whole time.

And on the final day.
As I waved goodbye to my family at the Shinjuku Bus Terminal,
I was desperate to force a smile.

The moment the bus disappeared from sight,
the thread of my heart that had been stretched tight snapped.
I couldn't stop the tears.

Deep inside the heart I had covered with bravado,
I felt as if my true self had quietly peeked out.

At that moment, I finally realized.
I had been reducing the time I spent with my family without even noticing.

What had increased were my work responsibilities and overtime hours.
What had decreased was the laughter of my children.

Every time I glanced at the clock in the office late at night,
the laughter that should have been coming from the living room crossed my mind.
That silence had, at some point, turned into the sound of loneliness.

The Price of the 'Hardworking Father' Ideal

Life in Tokyo was suffocatingly busy.
The unfamiliar city air, the days spent chasing numbers.

Telling myself, 'I have to do this for my family,'
even on my days off, I was thinking about work in the back of my mind.

A year passed, but my heart remained unfulfilled.
Even the room that should have been warm felt cold somehow.

It was as if, back at the bus terminal that day,
I had left my own body heat behind.

What My Eldest Son's School Refusal Taught Me

Just then, in the spring of his first year of junior high, my eldest son stopped going to school.

At first, I couldn't understand it at all.

'Why won't you go?'
'If you just go, things will work out, right?'

There were days when I would half-forcefully push his back as he resisted at the entrance, crying because he didn't want to go, and send him off to school.

I still remember it clearly.
The trembling of that small back.

Then, one morning a while later.
I caught a glimpse of my son's expression,
and saw a 'rejection' that words could not describe.

It felt as if the world reflected in my son's eyes and my own world
were in completely different seasons.

In that moment, the 'correctness' inside me crumbled with a loud noise.

Forcing him to go was not love.

Watching over him.
Believing in him.
That was what was truly necessary.

The courage to watch over him gently

From then on, I decided to watch over him without saying a word.

Whether he was playing games in the house, or
as long as he woke up in the morning and slept at night, I decided that was enough.

Swallowing my impatience,
I simply stayed close by his side.

Time flowed slowly,
and in those quiet days, the light gradually returned to my son's face.

A year later, my son returned to school at his own pace.

Now, he is dedicated to club activities at the high school he wanted to attend,
and is laughing with his friends.

Every time I remember that morning I made him cry at the front door, I think to myself.

The anxiety that I might be wrong.
The fear that someone might say something to me.
The confusion of not knowing what to do.

I think all of those things mixed together,
and with trembling hands, I pushed my son forward.

With my second son, I didn't feel that impatience.

My second son also stopped going to school in the fifth grade.
But this time, I didn't panic.

We chose to transfer schools and set up a new environment.
Then, I felt that his smile returned as naturally as if by magic.

I was finally able to understand that truth with my whole being.

Time spent with family is about “warmth,” not “quantity.”

What matters is not what you talked about, or where you went.

Even if there are few words,
even if there are a few arguments,
it is the realization that we are “together again today” under the same roof.

That warmth connects a family.
And that warmth supports a life.

What it means to "grow" as a family

In the past, I believed that "growing money" or "growing results" was success.
But now, it is different.

What I should have been growing was,

not the number of conversations, but the frequency of smiles.
Not results, but moments of peace.
And, the warm time spent with family.

Only after being apart did I finally understand.

That increasing the time spent with family
was the most valuable investment of all.

In the end

Now, both my eldest and second sons are attending school happily.
My eldest daughter has become a university student, and each of them is walking their own path.

Children are stronger than parents think.
And they are evolving much more than we are.

Watching over them is not about giving up, but about believing.
Family bonds are not grown through results, but through time.

Time spent with family is not about "reducing" anything.
It is about "increasing" the happiness of being together.

A family is a community of trust living through the same time.
I believe that gradually increasing that trust
is surely the most important "power to grow" in life.

Back then, I sought results.
Now, I seek warmth.

If you count "growth" by human warmth instead of numbers,
your life will surely begin to breathe more richly and warmly.

Shin Kondo