What you already have

Freedom is the serve — being able to choose. That’s how I defined it in the last piece.

But to choose with any ease, you need a foundation.

If the company folds, I’ll be okay. If I’m laid off, I’ll be okay. If illness stops me working, I’ll be — to some degree — okay.

It’s that kind of security that lets a person choose for themselves.

So what do you need in order to build that foundation? Here’s the thing: you already have it. You just haven’t noticed, or don’t yet know how to use it.

Knowing what you have right now, and knowing how to use it — from here on, the power to see those two clearly is what decides things. So let’s start by sorting out what you have.

The “belongings of a life,” as I think of them, come down to three elements.

The first is your resources: time, skills, history, relationships, and a little capital.

The second is your values: what you hold dear, what you’d be willing to let go of, what you love, what you don’t.

The third is your constraints: family, health, age, where you live.

Once these three are clear, the elements that make up the present you come into view. Like taking inventory of a shop, let’s bring all three into the light.

Every past experience means something

What matters here is not to deny your past self.

In my own case: years poured into music that ended in failure, a long recovery from illness, more than a year of trouble overseas. By the world’s measure, nothing but detours. And yet, looking back, every one of them became an element that now supports my work.

The detours were the treasury of raw material.

Bringing the “now” into the light can hurt. You can feel small, as if you hold nothing. But within everything you’ve lived through, the material for what comes next is certainly there.

Aren’t you underrating yourself?

You may think you have no special skill. But the things you do as a matter of course in your daily work can be, to someone else, a valuable craft.

Maybe you carry an illness or some kind of handicap. Even so — I know people who have given courage to many simply by writing about their illness and their return from it.

“But really, I have nothing,” you might say. Go to a bookstore once. There are whole books written on just “getting up early.” You hold some material, certainly. It’s only hard to see its value from the inside. Praised for being tidy and meticulous with paperwork; complimented on your smile with customers; strong with numbers and fond of analysis — those are real resources. Every kind of work holds value. First, take honest stock of it.

Face yourself, calm and honest

One more caution. What looks at first like a constraint can be a resource, and the reverse is true too.

That was me. For a long time I could see my failed music years only as “failure.” Nothing for a résumé, no money left over. A pure constraint, I thought. But when I took stock, the view changed. The expressive power music gave me, the computer skills, and a “no way back” hunger — all of it quietly underpins the web work I do now.

The reverse happens too. A “past success” can look like a resource and turn into a constraint that binds you. The memory of “but it all worked back then” can block a new attempt.

Look at your values carefully too. Say you dream of a nomad life abroad — do you truly want that life? Maybe some media or someone else simply planted the image “freedom = nomad” in you. Maybe, for you, a city high-rise would actually be more “free.” When you take stock of yourself, it’s better not to weigh in the world’s common sense or other people’s opinions. Facing yourself, thoroughly, matters more than anything.

Start by writing it down

Inside you, a mountain of unused material lies sleeping. The problem is that no one teaches you the work of naming it and putting it into usable form.

So try this first. Take paper and a pen, and write out three things: resources, values, constraints. (I’ve prepared a worksheet you can print and use.) Any one of them is fine. It doesn’t have to be perfect.

By writing it down, the outline of the seed inside you will surely begin to show.

Seed Inventory Worksheet

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Self-sufficiency, the new kind

When you hear “self-sufficiency,” what kind of life do you picture? Living in the countryside, growing your own rice and vegetables, eating only what you raise? In an age that’s hard to see ahead in, that might sound like a small paradise.

But this is not about tilling a field.

Look at the word itself. To be self-sufficient is to supply your own needs — and, just as much, to find them sufficient: to feel that what you have is enough. Both halves matter.

The first, supply, is income: once you can make your own, the range of choices in your life widens enormously.

The second — enough — is the harder one, and here it runs deep. At Ryōan-ji, the Zen temple in Kyoto famous for its raked stone garden, there is an old stone water basin carved with four characters that, read together, say: I know only what is enough. This is taru wo shiru — to know what is enough — and it points the opposite way from the culture of more. A freedom found not by adding but by paring away; not by getting everything, but by needing less. In an age drowning in things and information, that sense of enough doesn’t come easily. But it was never about having everything. It’s the felt sense that you are choosing your own life. That is what I mean by enough.

The principle is the same as it ever was. What changed is the means. With technology on your side, the range one person can reach has widened dramatically. That is Self-Sufficiency 2.0 — a way to live by your own work. My aim here is to help you reach it too.

Where you are right now

Take a moment to look at where you are.

Maybe you have a steady salary, but the thought of running flat-out until retirement makes something in your chest tighten. Or maybe you went freelance and can’t see next month’s income — free, supposedly, yet not feeling free. Open social media and there’s someone glowing, doing what they love for a living. The midpoint of life comes into view, and some nights you wonder: is this how it ends?

The trigger differs for everyone. But if you’re reading this, something must have caught.

That feeling isn’t wrong. Unease, sometimes, is what tells you which way to go.

What “freedom” actually is

What you want is, most likely, freedom. But it’s a slippery word. Being able to buy what you like? Being able to live without working? Living unbound by anyone? Everyone reads it differently.

The internet today overflows with versions of freedom — “how to make ¥X a month from social media alone,” “I FIREd and now I drift between countries.” Bright, weightless images of freedom. I chased that kind once myself, and bought a few “easy money” courses. Open the box, and nearly all of them came down to: “you, too, should post online and sell a course.”

There’s nothing wrong with those methods. But that’s not what I’m after here. Not passive income and endless leisure, not a hack to game the system. A life with its feet on the ground. Effort, of course, will be required. But by adjusting the direction of that effort and tuning it, a sustainable shape comes into view.

The heart of a sustainable freedom

So what is a “sustainable freedom”?

Honestly, I don’t know complete freedom either. But compared with before, the things I get to choose have certainly grown.

If work comes in, I can choose whether to take it. If there’s someone I want to see, I can make it work — a weekday afternoon, a Sunday midnight. I’ve flown from Japan to Germany just to meet someone; and within Japan, from the snow country in the far north down to subtropical Okinawa — the whole length of the islands. When my father collapsed, I had to spend about a month back at my parents’ house — and I could keep working without trouble. I make it to almost all of my kids’ events, and because I work at home, they get to see their father at his work.

It wasn’t a smooth road here. Nights I couldn’t sleep, unable to read next month’s income; times I took on too much alone and nearly broke my health. Freedom always has instability for a shadow.

And still, on the far side of accepting that instability, there are things to choose. I live deep in the mountains now, but I could move my base back to the city. A town by the sea, another go at the country abroad where I once lived — all of it is up to me. Every choice carries responsibility. But I get to make the choice.

In tennis there’s the serve — the state of holding the initiative, sending the ball into play on your own timing. Life is the same, I think. Where to live, who to work with, what to spend your time on — being able to decide that first stroke yourself. To have the serve.

That, surely, is what freedom is.

Where is your serve right now?

Everything I’ve done to win mine back, I’m going to tell you.

Today I sowed a seed — a book.

Self-Sufficiency 2.0: the record of the experiment I’d been writing, gathered into a single volume and published in Japan as a Kindle e-book.

There’s a small reason I chose this particular day.

The farmers around here still read the old almanac closely. Some days, it tells you, you don’t turn the soil at all. And when it’s time to sow, you wait for what the almanac calls ichiryū-manbai-bi — “the day one grain becomes ten thousand.” A single seed, it promises, will come back ten-thousandfold. Whether there’s any science in it, I couldn’t say. But something that people with their hands in the earth have trusted for centuries carries a weight that reason doesn’t quite reach. Today was that day. So today, I sowed.

I wrote it honestly — what worked, and what failed. It’s not the gospel of someone who made it. I’m still on the road myself; it’s a book in which someone still walking wrote down the scenery of the walk.

The book is in Japanese, so for most of you here it isn't really something to buy. Think of it instead as the seed this English newsletter grew from. (If you happen to read Japanese, it's on Amazon's Japan store.)

▶︎ Amazon

How far a seed travels, you never know. Maybe it won’t reach at all. But nothing begins unless you sow.

I’d be glad if it found its way to you.

From the foot of the Southern Alps. Yuki Hattori

Nine years ago, I wrote a beginner's guide to building websites. With the revised edition, it sold somewhere around 75,000 copies.

Not everyone who read it went into the web. Still, I think a fair number of people stepped into the craft because of that book. I find myself thinking about them.

Back then I truly believed it: learn to build for the web, and you can feed yourself by your own hand. And it was true. One computer, anywhere, your own skill winning the work. That was, genuinely, one shape of freedom.

But the ground is shifting under that belief.

AI drafts the design, writes the code, and sometimes builds a whole site overnight. It’s only natural that a client starts to wonder, “if AI can do it, why outsource?” I don’t think the craft becomes worthless. But we’re nearly at the point where being able to make it is no longer, by itself, a reason to choose you.

This isn’t someone else’s story. It’s mine.

I’ve run a web studio for twelve years. The work, thankfully, keeps coming. But I can no longer believe the flower that once bloomed will keep blooming forever.

So I’ve started growing the next one.

Three things, concretely.

The first: turning fifteen years on the job into a product — distilling the craft of web direction into a tool. Working with AI, a prototype came together in six days. I’m still building it.

The second: changing the shape of my income — moving from a life lived on one-off commissions toward a hybrid that mixes in recurring revenue. Still only halfway there.

The third: recording and sharing this experiment itself.

Honestly, there’s nothing here I can call a success yet. The studio work continues, thankfully — but even that, I can’t see far down the road. Everything is mid-experiment. Everything is still in the struggle.

I write anyway, because silence feels like the more dishonest choice.

Among the people who entered this craft after reading that book, some must be asking themselves, right now, what do I do from here? For someone who hit the same wall a little earlier to say nothing to them — that would be a kind of desertion.

What I found isn’t an answer. It’s a direction.

Turn your professional knowledge into something beyond commissioned work. Put your skill to use for yourself. Hold more than one pillar of income. Know what your life costs, and travel light.

I gathered all of it under one name: Self-Sufficiency 2.0 — a way of living where you make your income and your life with your own hands.

Tomorrow, I send that experiment out into the world as a book. That story — tomorrow.

A book.

“Book” covers a lot of ground. Novels and stories, business books, technical manuals. Encyclopedias, magazines, picture books. And the forms vary too — commercial publishing, self-publishing, e-books, and the independent kind, like zines and dōjinshi.

I love books. I’ve had a hand in publishing a few. Some carried my name; for others I only helped with the insides.

A few of them sold.

They reached places I never could have imagined. That was a great joy — and also a discovery: knowledge, once put into order, travels farther.

But there was a shadow side. The self swells. People call you “author,” “sensei,” and against your better nature you get a little carried away. Income rises. People gather. Work multiplies.

Nothing wrong with that. Good things, surely.

True enough.

And yet — every era has its current.

The book I wrote was a technical one, on web technology. Until recently that was “work a step ahead of the curve.” People told me I had foresight. I was probably getting cocky.

Then one day you notice: what you’re standing on isn’t bedrock. It’s a small sandbar. Somewhere along the way the luggage piled up, and you’re holding more than you can carry. Your body is heavy. You can’t get off. And the sand under your feet is almost gone.

I was born the second son of a small rice shop in Nagoya.

When I was a child, rice was sold under a state monopoly — only licensed shops could sell it. In a country where rice now turns up as a prize at pachinko parlors — the pinball-like gambling arcades you find on every corner here — it’s hard to imagine, but that era existed, and our family business did well because of it.

Then rice was deregulated. How heavily that policy fell on my grandfather and father, I — a child at the time — couldn’t grasp. I was told it was hard. But it had nothing to do with me. The only trace it left: years later, when I’d lost sight of my future and offered to take over the shop, my father said, “there’s no money in it — don’t.” So I went looking for my own road, and here I am.

Thirty years on, a wave of the same shape is breaking over me.

This time it isn’t policy. It’s AI.

The skill I’d worked so hard to build. I thought I had “a trade in my hands.” I’d published a book that sold, handled big projects, won an award. I thought I’d finally reached solid ground.

There was no solid ground.

A website that takes me a month — out of pure curiosity, I tried building one with AI. I had the idea at ten at night. Four hours later, at two in the morning, the design and the build were all but done. A month, against four hours. It had already come that far.

I’ll be honest: building a website with AI, there’s resistance in me. I want to keep the sanctuary intact. You probably do too. But when you realize the flower that bloomed in that sanctuary withered long ago — what are you supposed to do?

So I changed the question. Not “will AI replace me,” but “what can I do with it.” Ideas I’d kept warm. Projects I never had time for. Things my skills couldn’t reach. I tried them, one by one.

It surprised me. It felt like my own reach had been extended.

But AI doesn’t solve everything. If anything, it asks what’s inside you. Experience, judgment, taste. Without those, you don’t even know what to ask it for.

AI is something like an excellent colleague. Not someone to work into the ground, but someone to think alongside.

And so, now, I’m writing a book.

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Half past five in the morning.

Outside it’s still dim. Only the birds, awake a little before me, break the silence. My family is still sleeping. From our home at the foot of the Southern Alps, in the quiet, I’m writing this.

I run a small company, alone. I live where I chose to live, doing work I chose. It’s a calm life.

But the road here wasn’t a straight one.

Through my school years I could barely attend, and I left university without finishing. I moved from one part-time job to the next, more often than not unable to settle in anywhere. There was nothing on my résumé worth showing.

One thing I always carried, though: the question of how I wanted to live. That, I suspect, is exactly why I never fit. I kept spilling past the edges of the mold, with no idea how to answer it.

At the end of a long detour, the outline of an answer finally came into view.

Make your income, and your life, yourself. I gave this way of living a name: Self-Sufficiency 2.0.

People once grew their own food to live. What we grow now is the system beneath income and daily life. The tools change; the essence — building your life with your own hands — does not.

I gathered this thinking into a book and published it in Japan. What I’m doing here is sending it out again, in English, a letter at a time — not as a finished method, but as a record of an experiment still in progress. What worked, and what didn’t, written honestly.

If something in the way you live feels slightly off, this letter might become a seed.

From the foot of the Southern Alps. Yuki Hattori