Ren Nakamura

This morning, like every morning, I laced up my running shoes and headed to the track. The early hours are the best time to train—quiet and almost peaceful, allowing me to momentarily forget the stares and whispers. At 26, my life in Osaka revolves around speed and endurance, both on the track and off.

Being "haafu" in Japan isn't easy, especially when you're Blasian—half Japanese and half African American. Growing up, kids at school would avoid me, believing absurd things like my dark skin could rub off on them. Comments like, "You're only fast because you're black," reduced my hard work to a stereotype.

Over time, I channeled my frustration into training. If I performed well, I was grudgingly accepted; if I didn’t, I was the foreigner again. It's a heavy burden, constantly having to prove that I belong, that I'm Japanese enough.

But things are slowly changing. The younger generation is more open and accepting, less likely to make snap judgments based on skin color. When a group of high school girls approached me for autographs after a race last month, they didn’t see me as the “Black athlete,” but simply as someone they admired.

Their enthusiasm reminded me why I keep pushing forward. Every stride I take, every record I break, is not just for me but for everyone who feels like they don’t quite fit in. I dream of a Japan where being black and Japanese is as natural as breathing, where no one says, "You don't look Japanese."

As I finish my laps, the city begins to wake up, and with it, a new day of challenges and possibilities. I wipe the sweat from my brow, ready to face whatever comes next. Because every step I take on this track is a step toward a more inclusive future, and I’m determined to keep running, no matter how hard it gets.