“Healthy Indebtedness”

What a Small Tokyo Café Taught Me About Leadership

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There is a café called Kurumido Coffee, on the west side of Tokyo.

When you step inside, it feels almost like being in a treehouse.

The walls, the tables, the chairs — everything is made of wood. It feels like an old-fashioned coffee shop, or like sitting quietly in a forest. A space released from the everyday rush of the city.

The founder, Tomoaki Kageyama, once worked at a foreign investment bank. In his book “Slow Down to Hurry Up”, he repeatedly uses the phrase “healthy indebtedness.”

Healthy indebtedness is the quiet feeling of having received more kindness than you can immediately return.

The café itself is designed around that philosophy. From the space, to the coffee, to the hospitality — nothing is something you can easily obtain in daily life.

In fact, the coffee is priced one step or even two steps higher than Starbucks.

And yet, when you walk up to the register to pay, you find yourself thinking:

“Was it really okay to receive this much for this price?”

You feel a small sense of indebtedness.

A feeling of having been given more than you expected.

And because of that, you might find yourself being slightly kinder to the next person you meet. Or replying to an email with a little more care.

And then you think: I want to come back here again.

This idea of “healthy indebtedness” — this small starting point of value circulation — is a simple conclusion Kageyama arrived at after years of observing how money and economic systems circulate in the world, and sensing something was off.

“Nothing I do changes them.”

When supporting managers, I sometimes hear this:

“No matter what I try, my team member doesn’t change.”

The same mistake happens again and again. You sit down together and think through countermeasures. You ask, “Do you understand?” They say, “Yes.” And then it happens again.

And gradually, the number of words increases. The amount of instruction increases.

“Wait — you don’t understand, do you? If you understood, why would this happen again?”

As a professional, we are trained to think in terms of problem-solving:

What do I adjust? How do I improve my instruction?

Years ago, when I found myself in a similar situation, a senior mentor said something to me. I remember it clearly.

“With the words you are using now, nothing will get through — no matter how you refine them.”

It was firm, but gentle.

What I needed to realise was this: The issue was no longer about wording or technique. The relationship itself had closed.

When people are repeatedly pointed out for what they are not doing well, they do not enter “improvement mode.” They enter “defense mode.”

Brené Brown, known for her TED talk The Power of Vulnerability, has said:

“Shame does not lead to change. Empathy does.”

When someone is repeatedly confronted with what they cannot do, learning shuts down. Defense switches on.

Pressing the reset button

So what should we do?

There is no single right answer. But I have come to see such moments as a time to press a reset button.

To acknowledge that your words are no longer landing. And to stop — completely — the impulse to add more instruction. Because almost none of it will be effective.

Instead, I return to Kageyama’s principle: slow down to hurry up.

Perhaps what we can offer is not more correction, but an experience of “healthy indebtedness.”

If we follow Brené Brown’s research, this means replacing shame with empathy. It means touching something vulnerable inside the other person that is larger than what they themselves expected to reveal.

Resetting with my daughter

Recently, my daughter had a powerful meltdown.

After spending the entire day playing with a close friend, she cried intensely for over thirty minutes when it was time to say goodbye.

She kicked the wall. She kicked me. She kicked her toys.

We had been working together on handling her tantrums. And I sensed that perhaps, because she knew she would be corrected, the intensity escalated.

So I decided to reset.

“Ah I see it. You loved her that much. You’re that sad to say goodbye. That’s such a big love you have. How wonderful to have met a friend like that.”

For thirty minutes, I repeated variations of that.

I watched how those words landed.

Gradually, she began to say:

“Yes… it’s love. I really love my friend. That’s why I’m sad.”

Her expression softened. She seemed to regain a kind of dignity.

She had kicked everything — the wall, my leg, her dolls.

And yet, instead of focusing on the misbehaviour, she noticed that her mother was seeing her pure goodwill underneath.

When that sense of being seen overcame her shame, she quietly said:

“Sorry for kicking you, Mum.”

It emerged naturally.

In that moment, I thought: Is this what healthy indebtedness feels like?

The principle is the same

Whether we are dealing with adults or children, the essence of supporting growth feels similar.

We cannot directly change another person.

But “healthy indebtedness” can spark a cycle of goodwill.

What is the reset button?

As managers, as parents, we can easily fall into the illusion that we have control over others.

And sometimes, through excessive correction, we may unknowingly push someone into shame — into defense — until nothing we say can reach them.

When we notice that, perhaps it is time to reset.

The reset button means:

Letting go of the instructive mindset entirely. And listening only for the legitimacy beneath the action — no matter what the action looks like.

When someone says “I understand” even if they don’t — perhaps that is a form of respect. A desire to reassure you.

When a child behaves badly the moment they return from school — perhaps that is a form of trust. A way of saying, “I feel safe here.”

Listening for the legitimacy

Behind every action, if we listen carefully enough, there is almost always something pure.

A desire to protect something. To hold onto something. To avoid losing something precious.

Even in extreme cases.

Not long ago, there were reports of young people travelling across borders to join extremist groups such as ISIS. A researcher at a British university who studied their motivations found something unsettling: beneath actions the world condemns were deeply human longings.

A longing for purpose. For belonging. For a role that felt meaningful.

Even actions we cannot condone may begin from something that, at its core, is a distorted search for hope.

If we are in a position of guiding others, perhaps we want to be the kind of person who can see that underlying longing.

Not guidance that induces shame, but support that restores dignity.

Perhaps that is what creates healthy indebtedness — and relationships in which we grow together.

Until next time, I hope you find a new perspective on people and organisations.