How a Drunk Japanese Warlord Accidentally Invented Self-Love

There was once a Shogun in Japan. I have no idea what his name was — whether he was a genocidal maniac, a benevolent ruler, or something in between. What I do know is that he had this really pretty vase. It was the apple of his eye. Or, more accurately, the vase of his eye. Whatever works.

This vase wasn’t just a vase. It was the prize of his court, the crown jewel of his bedroom, the thing he probably whispered sweet nothings to when no one was looking. Anyway — one night, the Shogun was prancing around his bedroom, probably drunk off sake and ready to pass out, when he crashed into something. That something was, of course, his precious vase.

It tumbled to the wooden floor and shattered into pieces. And then, predictably, all hell broke loose.

The Shogun lost his mind. His courtiers scrambled to calm him down, offering more sake in the hopes he’d get drunk enough to forget the incident and maybe break a few more vases while he was at it. But no — the man was inconsolable. He wanted his vase back. It was like when your little brother breaks his favorite bowl and won’t stop sobbing until he gets the same bowl, except this time your little brother is the military dictator of all Japan. Sticky situation.

After hours of frantic deliberation, a decision was made: the broken vase would be sent to China to be fixed and would return in a year.

And so, off the vase went. In the blink of an eye — okay fine, in a year — it was back. The Shogun, who had spent the year sighing like a lovesick poet, probably having dreams about his vase, laid eyes on it… and started pouting like a petulant child.

The Chinese craftsmen, practical as ever, had fixed the vase by stapling it back together. Actual metal staples sticking out of the elegant surface like a bad DIY project. The Shogun was not pleased.

Faced with yet another royal tantrum, the courtiers were desperate. And then, one courtier — probably either a genius or very much on crack — suggested, why don’t we connect the broken pieces with gold? At first, everyone thought he was insane. Then they realized he might be onto something.

Thus began the endeavor. They used lacquer from Hokkaido, combined it with the finest powdered gold money could buy, and painstakingly repaired the vase. When it was finished, the cracks gleamed like golden rivers running across its surface. When the morning light from the East fell upon it, the vase sparkled like something divine.

When it was finally presented to the Shogun, he squealed like a teenage girl at a boyband concert and hugged it tight. And they lived happily ever after.

Now — I know I could have gotten to the point quicker, but that’s not my style. Like the Shogun, I too am dramatic and petulant, and you, dear reader, will have to bear the consequences.

The point is this: Every single person in this world is scarred, broken, a little ugly. We’ve all been left scathed by the sabre of this stupid, stupid world. But we also possess the ability to repair ourselves. To fill our cracks. To turn our jagged lines into shimmering seams of gold.

The Japanese call this art Kintsugi. It’s the practice of mending broken pottery by filling its cracks with lacquer and powdered gold — embracing its imperfections instead of hiding them. It’s a philosophy that says: perfection is an illusion, and the things we survive make us beautiful.

We live in an age obsessed with glitter and artificial glory. Filters, touch-ups, staged perfection. But perfection is a lie. It doesn’t exist. And chasing it is a recipe for quiet despair. What we can do is be who we are — authentic, unpretentious, gloriously cracked and gleaming with the gold of our stories.

So go ahead. Break. Crack. Fall apart. And then, fix yourself with gold.

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