When I lived in Kyoto, I was intimidated to try 'mokushoku,' or silent eating. But it taught me about the difference between being alone and loneliness.

• "Mokushoku" is the Japanese word for silent eating, or eating alone.
• I tried it when I studied there, and at first, it made me uncomfortable. But I learned to love it.
• It changed how I felt about the difference between loneliness and being alone.

I walked into a ramen restaurant in Kyoto on a chilly morning in late October right after my study-abroad lessons for a much-needed bowl of soup.

After one month in Japan, walking into the restaurant for lunch or dinner was starting to become part of my routine, and I was now used to seeing the restaurant sign that read "mokushoku," the Japanese word for silent eating, or eating alone. 

As I stared at the sign, I ordered my go-to dish, a bowl of ramen with gyoza on the side, and prepared to eat alone. I imagined that a few months ago, when I studied in New Jersey, I would have freaked out at the idea of dining by myself. But in Kyoto, a city with a slower tempo than the Japanese capital of Tokyo, I've come to love the very same act. 

Getting over the stigma of eating alone

Kyoto reopened its borders to international travelers on October 11 after three years of pandemic restrictions, and some of the most famous sites to visit are temples and shrines.

As a college exchange student, I was allowed to travel to the city two months before the borders reopened, provided that I obtained a student visa.

The first two months felt quiet and peaceful, with few tourists roaming the sites and shops. By in my third and final month in the city, tourists walked the streets of Shijo, the main shopping district, but the region still felt less touristy than in my previous times in Japan. Aside from when I took part in eating the mokushoku way in public, I still wore masks, much like the rest of the country.

The pandemic has exacerbated the need to eat alone, and the mokushoku practice in Japan provided an extra excuse to do so without fear of stigma.

Ramen shops with plastic dividers make doing so convenient, and having a meal by yourself in the country doesn't feel strange, even as many local shops seat small parties of two to three people. What's interesting is that during my time here, I noticed the difference between feeling alone and being alone. They are two different concepts. 

You can feel alone in spaces teeming with other people, but you can eat by yourself in a country where you don't know another person and feel as though you're thriving. In a place where more people eat by themselves — where there are signs encouraging patrons to do so — it feels normalized, as well as exciting. You feel as if you are a customer among a crowd of individual foodies; together you share a similar bond. 

Despite the benefits of eating alone, I was carrying some stigma about it, which made it more challenging to take the first step of walking into a restaurant and asking a waiter for a menu, all by myself.

I constantly scanned my surroundings and made eye contact with the waiter all too often, as if it's a signal that I needed my water refilled. But the discomfort of feeling my emotions and savoring my food to the maximum — without the distraction of company — can create the space for my mind to wander. This was something I had to get used to.

Dining alone comes with an outside stigma, but the process brings up feelings you may have never considered from within yourself. When you feel lonely while eating alone, you devise ways to challenge your brain and keep yourself company. The ability to find strength from within, however cliché, holds true and arms you with the power to navigate new experiences in earnest. 

The implementation of mokushoku started in Fukuoka in a curry restaurant and has since extended to other parts of the country, including dining areas in elementary schools. There are often plexiglass or Styrofoam dividers available so people can make their own physical cubicles to dine in. But the practice is mostly about eating silently and having a meal alone, even if you don't carve out your own physical space.

While people have always walked into ramen shops and other types of restaurants with the intent of eating alone, these physical dividers make it more efficient and comfortable and help people accept that there's nothing wrong with it. 

A local Japanese student once told me jokingly that even extroverts in the country may seem introverted by American standards. Though it may be an overgeneralization to say that every person in a country shares one type of personality, I've found that by and large, Japanese people are introverted.

I've also noticed that people there care more about what they say; this may be partly because the conservative country feels less accepting of different, often liberal, ideas. I've rarely engaged in debates or heard controversial topics discussed over meals, as I might expect on a college campus. For introverts, having meals solo makes sense.

Now I love sitting down by myself for a meal

Eating alone has taught me to appreciate food more. As I ate the flavors of Japan, occasionally adding yuzu sauce or asking for garnishes, I got to try new tastes.

Mokushoku has also helped me learn Japanese. Without relying on a friend who speaks fluent Japanese, I had to try to ask for help and explanations alone. Though I stumbled through words, the feeling of embarrassment and making mistakes forced me to remember the new terms quicker, and more than once, I caught myself pulling out Google Translate. But it also helped me remember the terms because I was learning by experience. For instance, I learned that garlic is called "ninniku" after multiple attempts to ask the waiter for an explanation. 

While eating alone, I also used my hourlong meals to catch up on text messages from friends in the states, relish the sweetness and savoriness that accompanies Japanese sides, and bask in the comfort of knowing that I wasn't lonely, even though I was sitting by myself.

Whenever I saw another solo customer next to me, I knew that in the city of Kyoto, to exist in solitude is to be free. Almost ironically, it was there that I learned to carve time out to think about others — but not before giving a toast to myself.