The Journey of Alex Thompson from Sydney to Kyoto
The seventh–floor apartment at 18 Campbell Parade, Bondi Beach, was pitch–dark except for a dim amber desk lamp casting a faint glow onto a wall stained with patches of dried sea salt. July rain in Sydney hammered against the fogged window, each droplet sliding down like cuts across the heart of the man curled up in a cracked leather armchair. A cup of peppermint tea, cold since the afternoon, still sat untouched on a rosewood table, its faint herbal scent mixing with the lingering smell of last night’s Jameson.
Forty–nine–year–old Alex Thompson exhaled—a heavy, dragging breath that felt like pulling a decade of exhaustion out of the chest that had once made him proud when he played semi–pro rugby for the Eastern Suburbs club.
Six years earlier, Thompson Constructions—the company he co–founded with his high school friend Dave Carter—collapsed after their Parramatta high–rise project was suspended indefinitely for environmental permit violations. His wife, Sarah, filed for divorce six weeks later, taking their two sons—eighteen–year–old Jake and fifteen–year–old Liam—along with the five–bedroom Manly house he once jokingly called “the Thompson Palace.” His father, Peter, a former coal miner from Hunter Valley, died of lung cancer on the same day the court finalized their asset division.
Alex, once the quintessential Australian bloke—six foot three, sunburnt, loud–laughing at weekend BBQs, driving a Ford Ranger Double Cab loaded with fishing gear to Broken Bay—had become a quiet shadow living in a rented two–bedroom Bondi apartment.
He was no longer himself. The man who once bragged he “never cries” now stayed awake until 5 a.m., rewatching old rugby matches on YouTube, drinking whisky until his eyes burned, and passing out on the sofa. His hair fell out in clumps. His eyes were dark and sunken. His weight jumped from 90 to 107 kilos thanks to beer and delivery pizza. His shoulders, neck, and back throbbed with chronic pain. Insomnia ruled his nights.
He avoided friends, rejected every invitation to see the Wallabies at Stadium Australia, and ghosted his old club in Rose Bay. He was ashamed of failing—as a man, as an Aussie, as someone who couldn’t protect his family.
Dave Carter still called once a month. “Mate, where are you? Let’s grab a beer.” Alex always made excuses. His mother, Margaret, seventy–two, FaceTimed him every Sunday, but he usually muted the phone. Only his youngest sister, Chloe—a primary school teacher in Wollongong—kept texting him daily even when his replies were cold and short.
Until one stormy July evening.
Scrolling Instagram half–drunk, a video popped up: a Western man about Alex’s age sitting in meditation while soft snow fell in the courtyard of an old Kyoto temple. His face was unnervingly peaceful. Captions read: “When everything collapsed, I found myself in Japan through traditional Zen and Shugendō energy healing.”
Below it: “Connected through Strongbody AI — the platform that brings you to the teacher you truly need.”
Alex clicked the link.
The interface was almost bare—white background, black text, no flashing ads.
The first question appeared:
“What hurts the most right now, and what do you still wish for?”
He typed slowly:
“I’ve lost my family, my business, my father, and myself. I just want to feel like a man again.”
Twenty–three minutes later, a voice message arrived from Sensei Hiroshi Tanaka—Zen master of the Sōtō school, Reiki healer, and Shugendō mountain practitioner from northern Kyoto. His voice was deep and warm like wind passing through pine forests:
“Alex–san, I am Hiroshi. I hear your pain. We will walk this path together, one small step at a time. You do not have to be strong right now.”
For the first time in six years, Alex broke down sobbing in the dark room.
Strongbody AI wasn’t a miracle cure and came with clear limits. It didn’t diagnose. It didn’t prescribe. It didn’t offer 24/7 doctors. And messages were often delayed due to the ten–hour time difference between Sydney and Kyoto.
Hiroshi repeated often:
“I am only a companion. Real change comes from you.”
The platform simply sent gentle reminders and forwarded direct video messages when both were available.
Hiroshi asked Alex to begin with the smallest steps: sit upright for five minutes each morning, inhale for four seconds, hold for four, exhale for eight. Drink a warm glass of water upon waking. Write one honest sentence about his feelings each day.
Some days Alex lost his temper, throwing his phone because he couldn’t sit still for three minutes. Some nights he messaged at 3 a.m. Sydney time (5 p.m. Kyoto):
“I’m a fucking failure. This shit doesn’t work.”
Hiroshi replied with a video from his tatami room, sunlight on his face:
“Failure is a story the mind tells. If you are breathing, you still have a chance. Tomorrow we start from zero again.”
Gradually, small changes emerged.
Alex woke at six, drank warm lemon water, bought a zafu and zabuton, and set up a meditation corner overlooking Bondi. He learned to recognize energetic blockages—tight shoulders, heavy chest—and practiced Hiroshi’s grounding technique for men: imagining himself as a pine tree swaying but never resisting the wind.
Chloe visited for a week. She cooked breakfast, set alarms, and meditated beside him every morning even when he grumbled.
“You’re a man, yes. But you’re also human. Men are allowed to be tired.” she said as they watched waves crash from the balcony.
Then came the worst crisis.
Three months before his planned trip to Japan, Jake, his eldest son, got into a motorcycle accident on the Pacific Highway near Newcastle. He fractured his clavicle and needed stitches for a mild brain injury.
Alex sped up the M1 in a storm, heart pounding, but Jake was already stable when he arrived at John Hunter Hospital. The boy looked at him with an icy stare:
“I don’t need you anymore. You’ve done nothing but drink since Mum left and the business failed.”
The words struck like a final blade.
Alex drove back to Bondi shaking. He pulled over, sobbing uncontrollably on the roadside. He opened Strongbody AI and hit “Talk now.”
It was 2 a.m. in Kyoto. Hiroshi didn’t answer immediately. Ten minutes later:
“I am beginning morning sutra. I will call in one hour. Drink warm water. Breathe. You are not alone.”
The hour felt endless.
When Hiroshi finally called, he stayed silent for forty minutes, simply listening as Alex cried and cursed and blamed himself. Then he said just one sentence:
“The pain of a father is the fire that forges the man. Let it burn your old self.”
The next morning, Alex booked his flight to Kyoto—eight weeks earlier than planned.
He stayed in a small Sōtō Zen temple in northern Kyoto for four weeks. Each day began at 4 a.m. with walking meditation through snowy forests, forty minutes of zazen, sweeping leaves, silent plant–based meals.
Hiroshi taught him self–healing Reiki, placing hands on his chest whenever memories of Jake tightened it. Some sessions left Alex shaking, tears soaking his yukata. Hiroshi would simply sit beside him, saying nothing, placing a steady hand on his shoulder.
On day twenty–nine, while walking through the snow–laden forest, Alex felt a depth of stillness he’d never known. No self–blame. No noise. Only pine needles falling and his own steady breath.
Four months after returning to Australia, Alex was transformed.
He slept deeply for the first time in eight years. His shoulders relaxed. He lost fifteen kilos naturally from mindful eating and daily five–kilometer Bondi walks. His complexion brightened. His hair grew back thicker.
He reopened a small business called Second Wind Constructions, focusing only on sustainable housing and eco–friendly timber homes. He worked calmly, no longer driven by the need to prove anything.
On weekends, he drove to Newcastle and sat beside Jake for hours—no explanations, no defenses, only presence. Jake slowly softened. One day he asked:
“Did you learn meditation in Japan? Why are you so calm?”
Alex smiled:
“Yeah. I learned I don’t have to keep pretending to be strong.”
Dave Carter, now a senior project director, invited him to collaborate on a social housing project in Western Sydney. They met at The Bucket List Bondi, drinking non–alcoholic beer, laughing like in the old days.
Dave said: “Mate, you look reborn. Where’d you disappear to?”
Alex told him briefly about the month under the snow. Dave went silent, then whispered: “I’m stressed as hell. Take me there someday.”
His mother, Margaret, stayed with him for a month. They meditated together on the balcony every morning. She cried when she saw his genuine smile again.
One Sunday at Manly, Alex hosted a small BBQ with only his closest circle—Dave, Chloe, Jake, Liam, and his mother. At sunset, with the Pacific glowing red, he played soft acoustic music and laughed aloud for the first time in years. Jake suddenly stood and hugged him in front of everyone. No one said anything, but all understood.
That evening, during his video call with Hiroshi, Alex said:
“Sensei, I learned that men don’t have to keep holding everything alone. Sometimes letting go is the strongest thing we can do. Thank you for not abandoning me when I was at my worst.”
Hiroshi nodded, eyes warm:
“Alex–san, you are no longer a broken man. You are a man who has learned to stand without carrying the whole world. Now you can help others do the same.”
Alex ended the call and stepped onto the Bondi balcony. The salty breeze swept past him. Waves crashed in steady rhythm. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and felt warm energy rise from his feet to the crown of his head.
In solitude, the right connection and intentional inner care had saved him.
He knew the journey wasn’t over—but every step now felt as gentle as Kyoto snow and as steady as Bondi waves.
Today, Alex Thompson is not just a man who returned from the snow–covered mountains.
He is a father learning to love again.
A friend learning to truly listen.
A builder shaping homes not only with timber and concrete but with trust and peace.
Each morning, as the sun rises over the Pacific horizon, he sits on his small zafu, inhales for four, holds for four, exhales for eight—and smiles at himself.
Life doesn’t end when everything collapses.
It truly begins when we learn to sit still in the storm and realize the storm is only part of the sky.
Alex keeps walking—and though the road is endless, he now walks with bare feet grounded and a heart as open as the ocean before him.
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Alex’s journey is not a fairy tale—
It is proof that with the right guide and one small intentional step, a life can change direction.
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