“If you don’t learn something new, you age faster than your body” – The Unbelievable Japanese Approach to Old Age
I don’t want to “sink with a world that is fading away.”
Old age is too often a time of waiting – for someone, for a pension, for a visit, for a miracle, for the end. But it doesn’t always have to be that way. Sumiko Iwamuro spent 60 years working at a dumpling restaurant. At the age of 77, she enrolled in a DJ school, and after turning 80, she began playing in Tokyo techno clubs, becoming a sensation among both the young and the old. She stopped being just a curiosity – people dance to her music not because of her age, but because of the music itself. She is now 90 years old and still making plans – her goal is to perform in New York. Not like someone trying to make it big, but like someone who simply wants to dance one more dance with fate. Or perhaps, not the last one at all.
Take Tatsuo Horiuchi, for example – he worked his whole life as a government clerk. In retirement, he began painting landscapes of Japanese mountains and temples in… Excel – a spreadsheet tool he knew from his office work. A painter who had no paints, but had patience and longing – and who proved that even a soulless worksheet can become a mirror of the soul if we only look at it with tenderness. His works have been exhibited around the world.
Masako Wakamiya learned the programming language Swift at the age of 81 because she couldn’t find any mobile apps suited for seniors – so she created one herself. Before 70, she had no connection to computers. After 80, she had mastered a programming language and released a popular app for smartphones. She is a woman who didn’t want to “sink with a world that is fading away.” Despite her age, she wanted to be part of the new world – and she became part of it. She was invited by none other than Tim Cook himself. “If you don’t learn something new, you age faster than your body,” she said with a smile. And then there’s Hamako Mori, who spent decades as a homemaker and later became “Gamer Grandma,” the oldest gaming YouTuber in the world, playing CS, Skyrim, and GTA. And Toyo Shibata, who began writing poetry at the age of 92, replied to death in one of her poems: “I’ll stay here just a bit longer. There are still some things left to do.”
In Japan – though loneliness exists there too – the idea has survived that old age does not strip us of our right to passion, to action, to presence. That it can be a second youth – not the kind wrapped in illusions, but one with its own code of life. Today we’ll explore five life stories that serve as living proof that age does not rob us of the right to be curious, active, present – and may, in fact, offer even more. We simply have to take care of ourselves beforehand – care for the body, nurture our curiosity about the world, stay open to learning new things at any age – this is the sensible price of admission to the highway of active aging.
The Undying Spirit: Old Age in the Japanese Way
In Japan, old age is neither a triumph nor a defeat. It carries neither radiant glory nor bitter shame – it is a stage, like walking through the mountains: sometimes the road climbs steeply, sometimes it gently descends, until at last it opens to a view we never knew existed. For centuries, old age in Japan has carried a kind of dignity – dressed in silence, knowledge, and sensitivity. But even there, in a society of long life expectancy, cracks have appeared. Age can be a burden – a social one too. In a culture of productivity and efficiency, elderly people often feel unnecessary, invisible. And yet some – precisely then – begin their second lives. Or third, or fifth.
Philosophers such as Dōgen, the 13th-century Zen master, taught that the path (dō) never ends – that “practice and enlightenment are one.” A person does not arrive at a goal – they become it, by living mindfully, regardless of age. A similar idea pulses through ikigai – not a “mission” in the Western motivational sense, but a quiet, inner answer to the question: “Why did I get out of bed today?” Perhaps for a cup of tea. Perhaps for the cat brushing against your ankle. Or perhaps to try something you never dared before.
In a culture that has long valued not only results but also process, there is a concept called kaizen – the art of continuous, small-scale improvement. It is not a race. It is a dialogue with the self – quiet, daily, like sharpening a blade. That’s why in Japan, we meet people who, in their later years, begin to learn something entirely new – and then have another 10, 20, 30 years to live with purpose, in pursuit of mastery. Not for recognition (though that often comes). Not for money (though it’s surprising how much can come of it). But simply to find out what else can be expressed – who else one might still become.
Let us now look at five such lives – of people who, late in life, discovered something entirely new for themselves – and reached mastery in it.
DJ Sumirock
The Rhythm of Sumiko Iwamuro’s Life
Sumiko Iwamuro, known as DJ Sumirock, was born in 1935 in Tokyo, into a family deeply connected to music. Her father was a jazz drummer who performed for American soldiers during the postwar occupation of Japan. However, when jazz was declared “enemy music” during the war, his career was abruptly halted, and the family had to face hardship, including losing their home in the bombings.
After the war, Sumiko’s father opened a gyoza dumpling restaurant in Tokyo’s Takadanobaba district. Sumiko began working in the family establishment at the age of 19, dedicating herself to the culinary craft for over six decades. Although music was always present in her life, family and professional responsibilities pushed her passion for sound into the background—that’s how she spent 60 years of her life: working in the dumpling shop, but also raising a family.
The turning point came after the death of her husband, when she was around 77 years old. Encouraged by a friend who organized club events, Sumiko started attending music nights and became fascinated by the world of DJ-ing. She enrolled in a one-year DJ school course, learning to operate the equipment and mastering mixing techniques. No one suggested that 77 was too old to go back to school.
Under the stage name DJ Sumirock, Sumiko began performing in Tokyo nightclubs like DecaBarZ in Shinjuku. She started DJ-ing at the age of 78. Her sets are an eclectic mix of techno, jazz, French chanson, and classical music. She always opens her performances with a track from the anime Astro Boy, paying tribute to her neighborhood, Takadanobaba, where the character is said to have been “born” in the story.
The audience—often half a century younger than she is—doesn’t come to her sets out of novelty (just to see a “grandma” play—that’s not how she’s perceived at all). They come because the rhythm Sumiko draws from her black console holds truth—raw, pulsing, and free of pretense. Sumiko Iwamuro doesn’t play to surprise anyone, because, as she says herself, she’s too old for such nonsense. She plays because, in sound, she found a space where time loses its power—where neither body nor age has any authority. She says DJ-ing makes her feel free again—as though all the responsibilities she carried for decades melt away in the light of the strobe. Not to feel young again—but to reclaim herself. And indeed, watching her behind the console, it’s hard not to feel that old age can hold extraordinary reserves of life.
Sumiko compares working in the kitchen to mixing music, saying that both activities require attention, synchronization, and passion. “Whether you’re cooking or DJ-ing, the most important thing is the audience’s satisfaction,” she says. “You always have to keep an eye on how your work is being received in real time.”
Her story spread across the globe faster than any hit beat—from Tokyo clubs, through the Midnight Asia documentary on Netflix, to Western media that wrote about her with a mix of surprise and admiration. Sumiko Iwamuro, known as DJ Sumirock, gained international recognition, but remained true to her roots—still, almost daily, she hand-prepares gyoza dumplings in the family restaurant that’s been running for over sixty years. When she talks about her dream of performing a set in New York, she doesn’t sound like someone trying to “make it”—but like someone who simply wants to dance one more dance with fate. And listening to her, you can’t help but believe that it will actually happen—that she will play in New York, simply because she decided she would.
In a world so eager to hide old age behind the curtain of silence and resignation, Sumiko steps onto the stage boldly and brightly—not to protest, but to be—fully, unapologetically. She is living proof that old age doesn’t have to be a time for closing chapters, but for writing them—with a new language, a new alphabet, sometimes with a beat instead of a comma. Her presence in the club, surrounded by the young, isn’t a costume—it’s a meeting of generations in a place where rhythm is all that matters.
DJ Sumirock is not a “phenomenon” or a “curiosity”—she is a living question thrown at the world: what does maturity truly mean? Perhaps it’s not wrinkles that define it, but the courage to begin again—no matter how old we are.
Tatsuo Horiuchi
The Michelangelo of Excel
In the quiet of his home in Nagano Prefecture, where mountains meet the sky and the seasons paint landscapes in shades of melancholy, Tatsuo Horiuchi decided to embark on a new journey after retiring at the age of 60. For most of his life, he worked as a government clerk. His daily routine was filled with administrative duties, far removed from artistic pursuits. Though he had never worked as an artist, he was always fascinated by Japanese nature and traditional painting. Yet it wasn’t until retirement that he decided to dedicate himself to this passion. Without artistic training or access to expensive painting tools, he turned to what he had at hand — Microsoft Excel. For most, a tool for tables and graphs – for him, an unexpected canvas for expressing his vision of the world.
Fascinated by Excel’s capabilities, Horiuchi discovered that the program’s graphic functions could be used to create images. Using the Autoshape feature, he began composing intricate works depicting Japanese landscapes, cherry blossoms, mountains, and waterfalls. Every element – from a single petal to a vast panorama – was meticulously constructed from vector shapes, requiring extraordinary precision and patience.
Though created in a digital environment, his works capture the spirit of traditional Japanese painting. Inspired by the nature and culture of his homeland, Horiuchi crafts images that radiate tranquility and harmony. His approach echoes the philosophy of wabi-sabi, which values beauty in imperfection and impermanence.
In 2006, his talent was recognized when he won first prize in the Excel Autoshape Art Contest. Since then, his works have been exhibited in Japan and abroad, and he earned the nickname “The Michelangelo of Excel.” His pieces can be found on his website, where he also shares the Excel files, allowing others to explore his techniques.
Horiuchi not only transformed a business tool into an artistic medium, but also inspired many to seek creativity in everyday objects. His story shows that passion and determination can lead to remarkable achievements, regardless of age or available resources.
In an era where technology often drowns out the rustle of trees, and screens matter more than the view outside the window, Tatsuo Horiuchi accomplished something that once seemed impossible: he turned a spreadsheet into a landscape full of silence, light, and melancholy. In his images – created not with a brush but with a mouse and Excel’s shapes – Japanese mountains, blossoms, mists, and temple shadows reappear, as if to remind us that nature hasn’t disappeared, only been recorded in a new language. Horiuchi, a former public official with no ties to professional art, sat at his computer after retirement – not out of boredom, but out of a desire to say something to the world. And he did – in the way he could: through pixels.
Excel was not a random choice. Instead of investing in expensive art materials he had never used, he chose to work with what was accessible, familiar, even mundane. And that’s what makes his story so extraordinary – in a tool designed for calculation and planning, he saw the potential for imagination that most of us have long excluded from it. His works, created over two decades, have been showcased in galleries, won awards, and their files – publicly available – still teach others that art needs neither marble nor paint to exist.
For Horiuchi, Excel became not just a medium, but a metaphor – proof that limitations often exist only in our minds. That even the most soulless tool, meant for tables, can become a mirror of the soul if we choose to see it differently. And that old age doesn’t mark the end of imagination – on the contrary, it may be the time we finally begin to speak in our own voice.
In his digital landscapes, it’s not just scenery he portrays. These are also stories of time, of transience, and of a man who, against all odds, didn’t turn away from the world – but chose to redraw it. The lines of Excel, meant to divide, in Horiuchi’s hands connect – modernity with tradition, solitude with creation, silence with the rhythm of life.
Masako Wakamiya
Learned Mobile Programming
Masako Wakamiya – her story is particularly close and inspiring to me personally. I started learning to program, returning to a passion from early childhood, well after turning thirty. And I wondered: is it too late, is it even worth it? Well, Masako Wakamiya answered those questions.
She was born in 1935 in Tokyo Prefecture, at a time when Japan was entering a turbulent wartime era. She grew up in a modest, traditional family, in the shadow of great political and social upheavals. Her youth was far from easy – World War II marked her generation with hunger, anxiety, and loss. In the postwar years, as the country rose from the ruins, she began working at Mitsubishi Bank, where she remained for 43 years – first as a typist, then as a clerk. She was quiet, precise, devoted – the ideal worker in a system that didn’t expect women to have ambitions beyond the office. As she later recalled, for most of her life she had no contact with computers, and the word “technology” felt cold and foreign to her.
The turning point came unexpectedly – not as a professional impulse, but a personal one.
After retiring at the age of 60, Masako began caring for her ailing mother. Confined at home, increasingly isolated from the rhythm of her former life and social contacts, she decided to learn how to use a computer—so, as she put it, she wouldn’t “sink along with the world that is already leaving.” Over time, she discovered online communities, began writing a blog, editing photos, and creating digital art, but the real spark ignited when she noticed how few mobile apps were designed for seniors. She was 81 years old. So she decided to learn the Swift programming language and create her own—not for money, not for a career, but to offer older people something made by someone who truly understood them.
Let us repeat this—she started learning her first programming language at the age of 81.
It wasn’t learning without fear. She openly admits that Swift initially seemed as incomprehensible to her as a cipher from another world—filled with brackets, keywords, conditional logic, and strange-sounding commands. But Masako Wakamiya didn’t want the digital world to remain solely the domain of the young. When she began learning in 2016, she used guides and online courses, wrote her own notes, and broke down each line of code into its smallest parts. Swift—the programming language developed by Apple—turned out to be a good choice: clear, modern, yet challenging enough that you couldn’t just “coast through” it. But Masako wasn’t looking for shortcuts. When something didn’t work, she searched. When she got lost, she wrote to tech support—sometimes even to Apple engineers themselves. GitHub, in turn, became her second home. And she kept learning.
In 2017, her app debuted—Hinadan, an educational game based on the aesthetics and traditions of Hinamatsuri, the Japanese Doll Festival. The game was simple, but not simplistic: the user had to place historical dolls in the correct order on a special tiered platform, in accordance with tradition. There was no violence, no haste, no competition—just respect for tradition, the subtlety of gesture, and attentiveness. Wakamiya didn’t just create an app—she built a digital bridge between generations. Hinadan wasn’t just her first app. It was her first deliberate, authored code—a story written in the language of machines, but addressed to hearts—both young and old.
Her achievements did not go unnoticed. Shortly after the app’s release, she was invited to the prestigious Apple Worldwide Developers Conference in California, where she met with Tim Cook himself. Smiling at the 82-year-old Japanese woman, he called her “the world’s oldest app developer”—and it wasn’t a joke. By then, she was already well-known in tech circles not just as a symbol of inspiration, but as a real participant in the digital transformation. Since then, she has given lectures, led workshops for seniors, and taught them how to use computers and the internet, encouraging them not to fear “stepping into the unknown,” because—as she says—“there might be a second life in the unknown.”
Masako Wakamiya has also been active for years in the organization Mellow Club, which she co-founded—a Japanese network bringing together digitally active seniors. She has spoken at TEDx, has been the subject of many articles and documentaries, but she still most enjoys direct interaction—showing people how to use a tablet, how to join Zoom, how to stop fearing the keyboard. She doesn’t believe in the cult of youth, but she believes in the cult of curiosity. For her, it’s not the date of birth but the person that sets the limits.
In conversations, she often repeats one sentence: “If you don’t learn something new, you age faster than your body.” And her body—frail, gray-haired, moving with caution—doesn’t stop her from sitting down at the computer each day with the same focused intent she once had as a bank typist. Now she writes different letters—letters to the future. And for people like the humble author of this blog—those who start programming late in life and wonder, “Am I making a fool of myself?”—her answer is clear.
Hamako Mori
Gamer Grandma
Hamako Mori, known to the world as “Gamer Grandma,” was born on February 18, 1930, in the Asakusa district of Tokyo. Her youth unfolded during hard times: growing up in the shadow of war, helping to rebuild a country from ruins, and living in a society that expected women to remain silent rather than expressive. For most of her life, Mori led a quiet, traditional life—she was a wife, a mother, a homemaker. She had no contact with technology, didn’t know computers, and wasn’t interested in electronics. Her daily life was filled with household duties and caring for her family.
Everything changed in 1981, when she was 51. She noticed her children and grandchildren playing video games with enthusiasm. Intrigued, she decided to try for herself. Her first console was a Cassette Vision, one of the earliest available in Japan. Later, she moved on to the Nintendo Entertainment System, and in the 1990s, to the PlayStation. Over time, games became her passion, and gaming—her daily ritual. She would spend several hours a day at the console, immersing herself in virtual worlds that brought her joy and a sense of fulfillment.
In 2014, at the age of 84, she decided to share her passion with others and launched a YouTube channel called “Gamer Grandma.” On it, she posted videos of herself playing various games—from classic titles to modern releases. Her channel quickly gained popularity, attracting viewers from all over the world. In 2020, at the age of 90, she was entered into the Guinness World Records as the world’s oldest active gaming YouTuber. Her channel surpassed 500,000 subscribers, and her videos had millions of views.
Hamako Mori played a wide variety of games, from Super Mario Bros. and Dragon Quest to Call of Duty and Grand Theft Auto V. She particularly loved The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, where she could explore vast worlds and embark on epic adventures. For her, games were not just entertainment, but a way to maintain mental and physical agility. As she often said, gaming helped her train her reflexes, concentration, and hand-eye coordination.
Her story spread like a virus of goodness—not through a screen, but through smiles, surprise, and quiet admiration. As the world became infatuated with the latest tech trends, Hamako Mori—a petite elderly woman from Tokyo—reminded us that the true revolution isn’t the new console model, but the courage to start playing on one in your eighties. She didn’t spout clichés about “fulfilling dreams,” and she didn’t seek fame. She simply did what she loved—with childlike passion and mature dignity. Each of her YouTube videos was like a letter to the world—a letter written without pathos, but with a clear message.
Hamako Mori passed away on May 14, 2023, at the age of 93. Yet she did not depart in obscurity. She left as a legend. She left behind not just thousands of fans, but something more—an idea that old age is not the extinguishing of a flame, but perhaps its kindling. Her channel, her voice, her hands holding a controller—all became symbols of a time when the boundaries of age began to change their meaning. Mori showed that even if the body slows down, the soul can still run, jump, and fight—even in a virtual world. And perhaps there, among dragons, castles, and digital cities, she found her second youth.
Toyo Shibata
Poetry arrives late
Toyo Shibata was born on June 26, 1911, in Tochigi Prefecture as the only daughter of Yasu and Tomizō Morishima, a wealthy rice merchant. Her childhood unfolded during a time of major social and economic transformations in Japan. When her father's business collapsed, young Toyo had to take up work to support the family. At the age of 20, she got married, but left her husband after six months due to domestic violence. She returned to her parents’ home, where she lived until she met her second husband, a cook, with whom she had a son named Kenichi. After her husband's death in 1992, Shibata devoted herself to traditional Japanese dance, which she later had to give up due to spinal problems. It was then, encouraged by her son, that she began writing poetry—at the age of 92.
Her debut poetry collection, Kujikenaide (“Don’t Lose Heart”), was published in 2009 when she was 98 years old. It contained 42 poems and was initially self-published. After its unexpected success, the publishing house Asuka Shinsha reissued the book in 2010 with a new cover design. The book became a bestseller, selling over 1.6 million copies—an extraordinary achievement in the poetry market, where selling 10,000 is considered a success.
In 2011, on the occasion of her 100th birthday, Shibata released a second poetry collection titled Hyakusai (“100 Years”), which also garnered strong reader interest. Her poems were published in local newspapers, and she herself became a symbol of late-blooming artistic fulfillment. In one interview, she said: “I think about many things—my past, my family, everyday life. I immerse myself in those memories and write about them.”
Shibata’s poetry is marked by simplicity and profound reflection on life, transience, and gratitude. Her poems explore themes of daily life, human relationships, and aging. In one poem titled My Reply, she writes:
“My Reply”
(from Kujikenaide – “Don’t Lose Heart”)
In my ears the wind
Invited me
In intoxicating tones
"Shall we go now
To the other side?"
So, I
Quickly replied
"I'll stay here
Just a bit longer
There are still some things
Left undone"
The wind
With a pout on her face
Swiftly returned from whence she
came.
Toyo Shibata passed away on January 20, 2013, at the age of 101. Her life and work are proof that it is never too late to find your passion and express yourself. Her poetry—full of simplicity and wisdom—inspires people around the world to reflect on their own lives and to seek beauty in the everyday.
Conclusion
In the West—including in Poland—old age is often seen as a time of waiting. For the end, for someone to call, for warmth, for silence. At best, it becomes a time of slowing down; at worst, a time of social invisibility. Meanwhile, Japan—though it too faces demographic challenges—still carries a deep-rooted idea: that age does not strip a person of their right to curiosity, activity, or presence. That we are not extinguished fires, but still glowing embers—and it is up to us whether we blaze again.
Perhaps this is the deepest lesson in their stories—that age should not be an excuse, but an invitation. An invitation to look at the future differently, including our own. Their stories are not only a tribute to the elderly, but also a promise—that our own old age may become a time of passion, discovery, and second beginnings. But they also carry a quiet warning: to live creatively and consciously later in life, we must tend to that time in advance. To care for the body so it does not become a prison; to care for the mind so it does not retreat into routine.
Because regardless of whether we live in Japan or Poland—passion in old age is not a gift from the heavens, but the fruit of earlier choices. Self-care, curiosity about the world, the ability to learn new things—these are like preparing the soil, so that in later years it may bear fruit once again. And perhaps that is why we should listen to those who have already walked this path—not to imitate them, but to know that the path exists, and that it is worth preparing ourselves to walk it.
For as Toyo Shibata wrote, when the wind invited her “to the other side,” she replied: “I’ll stay here just a bit longer. There are still some things left to do.” And if we, too, want to have that answer someday—it is worth beginning to prepare it now.
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未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
Personal motto:
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
Mike Soray
(aka Michał Sobieraj)
未開 ソビエライ
An enthusiast of Asian culture with a deep appreciation for the diverse philosophies of the world. By education, a psychologist and philologist specializing in Korean studies. At heart, a programmer (primarily for Android) and a passionate technology enthusiast, as well as a practitioner of Zen and mono no aware. In moments of tranquility, adheres to a disciplined lifestyle, firmly believing that perseverance, continuous personal growth, and dedication to one's passions are the wisest paths in life. Author of the book "Strong Women of Japan" (>>see more)
Personal motto:
"The most powerful force in the universe is compound interest." - Albert Einstein (probably)
Mike Soray
(aka Michał Sobieraj)
Write us...
Ciechanów, Polska
dr.imyon@gmail.com
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