Lessons From Mount Fuji

While I was in Japan this April, everything seemed to align perfectly - the weather, the blossoms, the rhythm of the days. For two full weeks, we traveled across cities and countryside, and the skies remained consistently clear and bright. Ironically, on the one day we had set aside to visit Mount Fuji, the weather turned. It rained steadily, and thick clouds rolled in, obscuring every viewpoint where Fujisan is usually seen in all her glory.

We visited every recommended spot - Lake Kawaguchiko, the famous Lawson's store, Chureito Pagoda, Honcho street, even hidden local gems suggested by kind strangers. Yet, she didn’t show herself. At first, I told myself it was okay. “Some things aren’t meant to be seen every time”. I was quietly disappointed, but tempted enough to visit Japan again for this specific reason. I had romanticized that moment: standing before the mountain, marveling at its symmetry, feeling the stillness it’s known for. Instead, I saw a wall of mist and left with only postcards, stamps and a sense of unfinished business.

Then came our last day in Japan. We were on a Shinkansen, the bullet train, rushing from Osaka to Tokyo to catch our flight. I wasn’t even thinking about Mount Fuji anymore. We had had a brilliant vacation, with Japan clearly topping the list of our favorite countries. We were chatting lazily, recounting funny moments, when I happened to glance out of the window - and there she was. Towering, majestic, and completely unveiled. No clouds, no haze. Just Mount Fuji in full view, like a quiet revelation. For a few minutes, we just stared. It felt like a gift. I also managed to get a bunch of brilliant photographs, including the one on this post.

That moment stayed with me, not just for the visual awe, but for what it taught me. Mount Fuji doesn’t show up just because you’re ready. She appears when she is. In that simple truth, I realized how often we expect things - people, success, clarity - to show up on demand. But the most meaningful things in life tend to arrive on their own terms, not ours. There’s a quiet strength in being elusive. Fujisan doesn’t need to be visible every day to be respected, revered, or remembered. Her power lies in her presence, but also in her absence. Isn’t that something we all can learn from? We live in a world that glorifies constant visibility, perpetual availability, always being “on.” Maybe we don’t have to show up all the time to matter. Maybe showing up at the right moment is enough.

Another lesson? Grace in timing. That last glimpse of her - completely unplanned - was far more meaningful than any of our meticulously planned outings. Sometimes, the universe knows when you're truly ready to receive a moment. Sometimes, letting go of the need to control everything invites the most profound experiences in. Mount Fuji reminded me of the beauty of restraint, the value of stillness, and the wisdom of patience. She didn’t need to perform to be unforgettable. She just needed to be herself. I think I’m learning to do the same. To show up on my terms, to trust my own rhythm, and to understand that some of the best things in life don’t arrive when you demand them, but when you’re quietly ready.

So thank you, Fujisan. For staying hidden when I expected you, and for showing up when I needed you most. You were more than a mountain that day; you were a teacher, a metaphor, a reminder to live life with quiet confidence, firm boundaries, and timeless grace.