I think the biggest difficulty is that when I'm here in America

Chiaki Kuriyama once spoke with the honesty of a seeker on a difficult path: “I think the biggest difficulty is that when I’m here in America, there’s a necessity of using English, so I really have a great sense of wanting to learn, but unfortunately when I head back to Japan, the necessity vanishes and so does my enthusiasm about learning.” These words, though personal, reveal a truth that transcends borders: that the fire of learning is often fanned by need, and when need disappears, so too can the flame grow dim.

The difficulty she describes is one faced by many. In the presence of challenge, the mind awakens, the heart sharpens, and the will grows strong. In America, surrounded by the sounds of another tongue, Kuriyama feels the necessity—the daily urgency—to grow, to grasp, to communicate. It is in such crucibles that humans stretch beyond their limits, discovering powers they never thought they possessed. Yet when she returns to Japan, where her own language suffices, that urgency fades, and with it, the drive to continue. Here we see a deep truth: human beings are often moved more by necessity than by desire.

This rhythm between necessity and enthusiasm is as old as history. Consider the Roman soldiers who built roads, aqueducts, and fortifications in conquered lands. In the wilderness, necessity forced them to innovate, to discipline themselves, to endure. But in times of peace and luxury, when necessity was absent, Rome began to decay, its people losing the sharpness that had built an empire. Kuriyama’s struggle with learning is the same story on a smaller scale: without pressure, the sword of the spirit grows dull.

Yet her words also reveal a hopeful truth. For even in acknowledging her struggle, she shows the desire to learn—a seed that, if nurtured, can grow into discipline. Enthusiasm may vanish when necessity disappears, but wisdom teaches us that we can choose to create our own necessity. The ancients practiced this by imposing disciplines upon themselves—fasting when food was plentiful, training in arms when no war threatened, studying wisdom even in times of peace. They understood that the strongest souls are those who do not wait for necessity but forge it within themselves.

The challenge, then, is not unique to language, but to all growth. The musician may practice when a performance looms, but slacken when none awaits. The scholar may study before exams, but drift afterward. The worker may labor hard when survival demands it, but falter when comfort surrounds them. In each case, necessity ignites enthusiasm, but when necessity fades, so too does the flame—unless one learns to carry the fire within.

The lesson is this: do not let circumstance alone dictate your learning. If you wish to master English, or any skill, do not wait for America, or exams, or danger. Create your own necessity. Surround yourself with the language, even when far from its homeland. Set goals, find teachers, weave discipline into your days. For the ancients teach us that discipline is the true companion of greatness, while enthusiasm without discipline fades like smoke in the wind.

So take Kuriyama’s words not as confession of weakness, but as a mirror of our own hearts. Ask yourself: where has my enthusiasm waned because necessity has vanished? And then, do not wait for fate to force your hand—choose to cultivate that fire. For those who learn to make necessity for themselves will never cease to grow, and their journey, unlike fleeting enthusiasm, will endure until their days are done.