By Jeff Gogué

There’s a word in Japanese—gaman, 我慢—usually translated as patience, though the translation falls short. Gaman isn’t waiting, and it’s not just a word. It’s a state of being. It’s the way a person carries themselves when life presses hard.

Gaman lives in small moments. It’s endurance without letting the struggle spill outward.

Part of its shape comes from another lesson nearly every kid in Japan has drilled into them: meiwaku wo kakenai, 迷惑をかけない—don’t be a burden to anyone. Simple words, taught early. They tell a child to notice how their actions affect others, to steady themselves before letting frustration push outward. Over time, that rule becomes muscle memory. The restraint becomes a kind of grace.

The word 我慢 began in Buddhist teachings about controlling the restless ego. It eventually left the monastery and settled into everyday life. By the Edo period, it had become a shared understanding: a person shows character not by how loudly they suffer, but by how quietly they endure. It isn’t learned through lectures, but by watching how the people around you handle difficulty.

Earlier this year, I spent time in Japan with a group of people from different countries. The work we were doing asked a lot of them—more than most would normally choose to give. Their resolve impressed me. They held still. They pushed through. They had the kind of patience you rarely see. And yet, almost every single non-Japanese person talked openly about what they were going through: the pain, the cost, the inconvenience, the long hours, the strain. It was honest and human. But listening to them, I realized something important. Gaman isn’t only endurance. It’s the quiet surrounding the endurance. It’s the decision not to place your struggle in someone else’s hands.

That contrast stayed with me. These were people of character, people who had chosen a difficult path and followed through. Their dedication was real and impressive. But it made me see how true gaman has a layer Western culture simply doesn’t know how to hold.

Tattoo culture is built on endurance—the hours under the needles, pain tolerance, commitment, the power of decision and surrender. But watching that group, I realized endurance alone isn’t the whole picture. There’s a kind of patience that’s seen and heard, and a kind that’s silent. Tattooing draws out both. Some people breathe loudly and narrate every sensation. Others drift inward without a word. Both are valid. But only one resembles gaman.

Gaman doesn’t ask for attention. It’s a way of sensing what others carry without saying it out loud. It shows in posture, steady breath, the small nod that means, I can handle this. It’s a quiet discipline that earns respect.

In the end, gaman isn’t simply enduring a hard thing. It’s enduring it in a way that protects the space around you. It’s a passed-down Japanese childhood lesson—don’t be a burden to others—carried into adult life.

The day before my first session on my back, I casually asked Tomo—Shige’s apprentice at the time—if he would tattoo a koi leg sleeve for me after my backpiece. Tomo had already been tattooing over ten years and was an incredible artist. He agreed in passing while cleaning his station.

Three years later, after one hundred and one hours of tattooing, my full backside was finished. Again, Tomo was cleaning his station. I reminded him.

“Tomo, you’re next. Will you still tattoo a koi on my leg?” He visibly shuddered and shook his head.

“Tomo, don’t you remember me asking you three years ago?” He motioned for me to lower my voice, pulled out a pocket translator, typed in a Japanese word, and held the screen inches from my face.

Translation: “Unspeakable.”

“It’s unspeakable for me to ask you to tattoo me? I don’t understand…”

Almost whispering, he said, “First I tattoo you, then Shige-san, it’s okay… First Shige-san tattoos you, then me…”

He held the device back up to my face.

“Unspeakable.”

Two years after finishing my backside, knees to neck with Shigenori Iwasaki (Yellowblaze), I stopped by his studio in Yokohama while traveling in Japan with friends to say hello. He asked me to step outside onto the balcony overlooking Motomachi Street.

“Did you get tattooed?” His tone asked more than his words.

The last time we worked together was at the King of Tattoo Expo in Tokyo. His tradition was to tattoo shirtless, his body done by the legendary Filip Leu. My back was done by Shige-san. My visible insecurity showed as I worked shirtless beside him.

“You should get your front tattooed,” he said as we cleaned up.

Having already gone through my back project—the money, the travel, the pain, the disruption—I chose an easier path. I had my legs tattooed by a friend who frequently worked at my studio from the UK, and my front by a longtime friend through a trade. Less money. Far less travel. And even though those sessions still hurt, no one could be as “bad” as Shige. His reputation for long, brutally painful sessions is well earned.

I justified the decision in every way I could.

When I showed him my legs in progress, frustration crossed his face. He cut me off mid-explanation.

“Can I go over all of that with Japanese flowers in white when he is finished?” The only answer I could give was yes.

“It will be very painful,” he said.

“And your front?”

I showed him my outlined torso. His body language dropped. Completely disappointed, he said sternly, “I had plans for your front.”

Then, looking out over the street before turning back to me, he said, “You have no patience. You make decisions too fast. No thinking. Only what is easy.”

What he was talking about was gaman. And he was right… I finished the work. I paid the price. I endured the hours and the pain. But I never carried it quietly. I spoke about the discomfort, the cost, the strain. I let my hardship move outward. I let it shape my decisions.

Gaman would have kept it in my skin.