<figure id="attachment_470337" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="width: 2500px;" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-470337"><a href="#" data-ident_hash="bbb01f47"><img src="https://res.cloudinary.com/fridaydigital/image/private/t_article_image/wpmedia/2026/06/5670edd0bf970bf51e07f9347c561757.jpg" alt=""></a><figcaption id="caption-attachment-470337" class="wp-caption-text">Illustration by Mr. Kanda</figcaption></figure>
<h2>Growing up</h2>
I turned 46 on May 29.
I&#8217;m now approaching my fifties. Mentally, though, I still feel about 37—the age I was around the time I got married—so it&#8217;s hard to believe I&#8217;m nearly 50. In the first place, why do I feel stuck at 37? Up until around my 44th birthday, I felt as though I was still 31, the age when I left NHK. In other words, over the past two years alone, I&#8217;ve somehow aged six years mentally. I can&#8217;t think of any reason for it, and it makes no sense to me.
The first time I truly felt that I was becoming an adult was during the winter of my senior year of high school.
A group of more than ten classmates and I went to Sapporo for a graduation trip. At the place where we were staying, there happened to be a group of university-aged men from Tokyo who were there for a sports training camp or something similar.
In the lobby, they approached us and said, &#8220;Why don&#8217;t we hang out in our room for a bit after dinner?&#8221;
It was essentially a pickup attempt.
The girl they spoke to directly already had a boyfriend who was working full-time, and without her school uniform she could easily have passed for an adult. She looked very mature.
At the time, I was still quite innocent. The idea of entering a private room with a group of men I had never met frightened me. Besides, I couldn&#8217;t understand why I should spend one of the nights of our graduation trip with complete strangers. So I declined.
As I remember it, about six girls went to the men&#8217;s room. Around four of us returned to our own rooms instead.
I was among a group of about three girls who decided to call a taxi and embark on what we called &#8220;a Sapporo night tour recommended by the taxi driver.&#8221;
Looking back now, I think, &#8220;What high school students we were—chartering a taxi for several hours!&#8221; It was incredibly extravagant.
Even now, at 46, taxis still feel like a luxury, and I rarely pay for them myself.
But while I may have been innocent at the time, I did have an older boyfriend. Before the trip, he had handed me several tens of thousands of yen and said, &#8220;Since you&#8217;re going to Sapporo, enjoy some good food with your friends.&#8221;
With that spending money in my wallet, we let the driver guide us around the city.
I don&#8217;t remember exactly where we went, but I do remember being taken to a place with a spectacular view of Sapporo at night.
My friends and I had attended the same all-girls middle and high school. For six years we shared the same interests, got excited about the same things, and laughed at the same jokes.
To me, they felt like comrades.
And that makes sense. Out of the many private schools in Tokyo, we had all chosen the same one after considering factors such as location and school culture. Naturally, people who gathered in the same place were likely to share similar tastes and values.
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<h2>We thought we shared the same values</h2>
Yet on that night, six years after we first met, I realized for the first time that we had quietly become different people.
It was only a matter of how to spend a single evening, but none of us chose the same option. Some were interested in meeting boys, some wanted to sleep, and others wanted to keep sightseeing until the very end. The fact that we split into three separate groups came as quite a shock to me.
Standing beneath the cold night sky and gazing at the sparkling lights of Sapporo, I vividly remember thinking, &#8220;We&#8217;re becoming adults who will walk different paths. The things that interest us and bring us joy are no longer the same.&#8221;
It was, in every sense, a graduation trip.
Feeling the reality of our impending separation made me deeply sad. At the same time, however, it gave me a sense of resolve. We were about to leave the nest we had shared for six years, enter different universities, and step out into society. Realizing that we were ready for that made me feel focused and determined.
Earlier this month, I walked through the streets of Sapporo at night for the first time in twenty-seven years.
I had arrived the day before a location shoot that was scheduled for the following morning. I enjoyed conveyor-belt sushi, stopped by one of my husband&#8217;s favorite local establishments to say hello, and experienced the modern Sapporo tradition of the night café.
Back then, I had been spending my boyfriend&#8217;s money. Now, I was paying for my own meals with money I had earned myself—and covering my manager&#8217;s bill as well.
Back then, Susukino at night felt so intimidating that I couldn&#8217;t bring myself to step out of the taxi. Now, I walked around without the slightest concern, laughing and pointing things out with a smile: &#8220;There&#8217;s another hostess club!&#8221;
I had become someone my younger self could never have imagined.
For me, Sapporo is the city where I first became aware of what it meant to grow up.
What kind of person will I be the next time I visit?
Will it be for work again? As a tourist? Or perhaps—who knows—for a permanent move?
Having turned 46, I find myself gazing thoughtfully at a recent photograph taken in front of the famous NIKKA sign, reflecting on how far I&#8217;ve come.
<figure id="attachment_470338" class="wp-caption alignnone" style="width: 3004px;" aria-describedby="caption-attachment-470338"><img loading="lazy" class="wp-image-470338 size-full" src="https://res.cloudinary.com/fridaydigital/image/private/t_article_image/wpmedia/2026/06/83614dfb64f7defb962a677fca6ada4d.jpg" alt="" width="3004" height="3734"><figcaption id="caption-attachment-470338" class="wp-caption-text">© Kazuki Shimomura</figcaption></figure>
Aika Kanda (born 1980 in Kanagawa Prefecture) graduated from the Department of Mathematics at Gakushuin University. She joined NHK as an announcer in 2003 and left in 2012 to become a freelance announcer. Since then, she has been active primarily in variety television and currently serves as a regular main host of the daytime program &#8220;Poka Poka.&#8221;
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Her first book, <a href="https://www.amazon.co.jp/%E7%8E%8B%E9%81%93%E3%81%A3%E3%81%A6%E3%81%84%E3%81%86%E9%81%93%E3%80%81%E3%81%A9%E3%81%93%E3%81%AB%E9%80%9A%E3%81%A3%E3%81%A6%E3%81%BE%E3%81%99%E3%81%8B-%E7%A5%9E%E7%94%B0-%E6%84%9B%E8%8A%B1/dp/4065361834?&amp;linkCode=sl1&amp;tag=fridaymag-22&amp;linkId=7b143dc06b0a909efda233f6deb7d36a&amp;language=ja_JP&amp;ref_=as_li_ss_tl">&#8220;Where Does the Royal Road Lead?,&#8221;</a> a collection based on this essay series, is now on sale.
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From the June 19, 2026 issue of &#8220;FRIDAY&#8221;
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 Aika Kanda

 The first time I truly felt like I was becoming an adult was during the winter of my senior year of high school. “Let’s go on a graduation trip!” I said, and visited Sapporo with my classmates. Early last month, I walked the streets of Sapporo for the first time in 27 years. I wonder what kind of person I’ll be the next time I visit.

“Sapporo Links Who I Was at 18 and Who I Am Today”—Ai Kanda Reflects on a Lifelong Connection

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