Why I couldn’t upload videos for the past three weeks
(Why I haven’t posted for the last three weeks)
Today, just for today, I want to write honestly.
I started “Lost Salaryman in Japan” back in October.
At first, it was casual.
“Probably no one will watch.”
“If I can leave it behind like a diary, that’s enough.”
That’s what I thought.
But before I knew it, it stopped being a “diary.”
Every day, the numbers moved.
Every day, someone left a comment.
Every day, a stranger somehow stepped into a corner of my life.
And I was happy.
Truly.
Coming home from work, the convenience store lights felt strangely bright.
I’d get home, too tired to even take off my suit properly,
sit down on the floor, open my phone, and see:
“New comment.”
“Watched again.”
“Your video saved me.”
“You made me want to live today.”
Just seeing words like that made “today” feel like it meant something.
So for the last three months, honestly, I’ve been whipping myself to keep going.
Work. Film. Come home. Edit. Sleep. Wake up. Work again.
Weekends weren’t for resting—they were for filming.
I cut down on sleep, rushed meals, and kept saying,
“Just 30 more minutes,”
and then suddenly it was 3 a.m.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I kept thinking:
“If I stop here, it’s over.”
And by “over,” I don’t just mean the channel ending, or the numbers stopping.
I mean something messier, scarier—an ending you feel in your body.
If this YouTube channel disappeared,
I’d go back to being just an office worker.
Back to being no one.
And probably the same days would repeat again and again—
feeling like no one sees me, like nothing reaches anyone.
So I kept running.
Or maybe I pretended to run.
It felt like running was the only way I could stay standing.
But around the middle of January, one day… my hands stopped.
Not metaphorically. Literally.
I opened my editing software, lined up the footage,
and normally my fingers would move on their own—but
just clicking felt exhausting.
I remember thinking, “Why does everything feel this heavy?”
Not my body—my mind.
Like something was sitting on my back.
It wasn’t just one reason.
If anything, there were too many, and I couldn’t tell what the final trigger was.
First: the comments.
Most are kind.
Some people encourage me.
Some people laugh with me.
But every so often, those words show up—words that only exist to stab.
Not because they’re “right” or “true,”
but because someone just wants to hurt someone.
“You’re naive.”
“You’re just playing the victim.”
“Creepy.”
“Go home.”
“Quit posting videos.”
Words like that drop your body temperature the moment you see them.
Of course, logically, I understand.
It’s impossible to satisfy everyone with my videos.
That’s the internet.
I should ignore it.
I should stop looking.
…But I think “not caring” is a kind of talent.
I’m probably the type who cares.
I’m good at acting like I don’t, but
deep down, I do.
I remember it later at night.
It comes back while I’m brushing my teeth.
It hits me on the train platform and my chest starts to buzz.
It’s not even the meaning of the words that hurts—
it’s the fact that a world exists where people throw words like that.
Then there are the people who support me.
Buy Me a Coffee. Memberships. Patreon.
People spending their time and money to support this channel.
Normally, that should be nothing but gratitude.
But at some point, it turned into “weight.”
“Am I really giving back properly?”
“Am I actually providing value?”
“Is this just self-satisfaction?”
“Am I disappointing people?”
Once thoughts like that start, they don’t stop.
The more grateful I felt, the more pressure grew inside me.
There’s a moment when “gratitude” quietly turns into “responsibility.”
And it’s so quiet, you don’t notice it happening.
Then… my family.
I can’t go into details, but something happened that made my heart unstable,
and from there, little by little, my energy got chipped away.
Family is complicated.
Because they’re close, you can’t really run.
And sometimes, a single word from someone close hurts deeper
than insults from strangers.
I think I was pretending there too—pretending I was fine.
Making a “fine” face.
Working like normal.
Making videos like normal.
But inside, something was slowly crumbling.
And finally, my main job.
Overtime. Tasks. Responsibility.
“Not today.”
“I can’t edit today.”
“I’ll do it all tomorrow.”
Those days piled up,
and before I knew it, editing wasn’t “fun” anymore.
It wasn’t fun, but I had to do it.
I had to do it, but I couldn’t.
I hated myself for not being able to.
And because I hated myself, I froze even more.
A worst kind of loop.
Even going outside felt hard.
I couldn’t bring myself to hold a camera.
I just stayed under my blanket, staring at my phone,
watching time pass.
I was “resting,” but I wasn’t recovering.
If anything, the more I rested, the more anxious I became.
“Tired even though I did nothing.”
“Sleep never feels like enough.”
“Already exhausted the moment I wake up.”
That was my state.
But I want to be clear about this:
I wasn’t trying to run away.
I wasn’t trying to quit.
I didn’t start hating this.
I was just scared.
I had a feeling that if I kept going like this,
I would break.
And “break” doesn’t mean something dramatic.
It’s quieter than that.
Like waking up one day and feeling nothing.
Like not being able to laugh anymore.
Like filming a video and realizing it’s empty.
That was the scariest thing.
So I stopped.
Because I had to.
And here’s what I want to say most today.
While I was writing this,
this channel reached 100,000 subscribers.
It’s easy to type, but it still doesn’t feel real to me.
100,000 people is a number you would never meet in normal life.
The person next to you on the commute.
The cashier at the convenience store.
The people you say good morning to at work.
Even if those daily dots piled up, you’d never reach 100,000.
And yet there are 100,000 people who watched my videos,
read my words,
looked into small fragments of my life,
and chose to subscribe—to say, “I’m here.”
And what hits me the most is that it didn’t happen
when I was running at full speed.
It happened during the time I stopped—
when I rested, when I couldn’t post anything, when I couldn’t produce.
That feels strange.
And it hits my chest in a way I can’t fully explain.
“The me who can’t move.”
“The me who can’t give anything.”
“The me who feels useless.”
And even during that time, more people still subscribed.
Which means this channel wasn’t built only by my effort,
not only by me pushing myself and forcing updates and grinding through exhaustion.
I thought people supported me because I was “working hard.”
But maybe that wasn’t it.
Maybe what supported this channel was not “watching me try,”
but simply “me being here as a human.”
It’s hard to put into words, but
100,000 doesn’t feel like a whip saying “work harder.”
It feels more like permission—like someone saying,
“It’s okay to live a little easier.”
To be honest, I’m scared.
Now that we hit 100,000, a part of me says:
“I have to make more interesting videos.”
“I have to make better work.”
“I have to meet expectations.”
But another part of me says:
“If you break, it’s over.”
“Do it in a way you can keep doing.”
“Don’t consume yourself to create.”
I’m probably not a perfect person.
I’m not good at balancing work, life, and my mind.
I’m clumsy. I’m slow. I’m weak.
I get tired. I get lost.
Sometimes I want to throw everything away—
but somehow, barely, I keep moving forward.
So I want to say this clearly:
To everyone who waited—thank you.
To everyone who worried—thank you.
To everyone who watched quietly—thank you.
The fact that you didn’t leave… that saved me more than anything.
And the fact that we reached 100,000 during the time I wasn’t uploading—
that warmed something inside me.
I’m not fully back yet.
Honestly, I’m not at 100%.
But I wrote this.
I could put it into words.
And I think that’s because
there were people who waited.
It doesn’t have to be flashy.
It doesn’t have to be perfect.
It can be slow.
I just want to continue—properly.
Thank you for reading to the end.
This channel isn’t a story about a strong salaryman.
It’s a record of one salaryman—
clumsy, tired, lost,
but still living today.
And for me, 100,000 subscribers is less like an “achievement,”
and more like proof that you all told me,
“It’s okay for you to be here.”
Truly, thank you.