In a quiet suburban town in Hokkaido, Japan, one older gentleman arrives at the local gymnasium three times a week. He joins the group exercise class, chatting briefly with his neighbours before and after stretching his limbs. To the casual observer it might look no different from any communal fitness session—but for many Japanese men of his generation, this ritual is one of their strongest defences against what’s become an increasingly loud and under-discussed epidemic: loneliness. A recent study of adults aged 65 and over in Japan found that for men, participation in formal community roles such as neighbourhood association activities and group exercise were significantly associated with lower loneliness scores.
In a recent paper titled “Loneliness and social participation among older Japanese adults: The influence of gender on social participation”, PLOS ONE shows that among men, each regular attendance in neighbourhood association work and group exercise remained significantly linked to reduced loneliness even when depression and self-evaluation of ability were statistically controlled. By contrast, for women, the study found no single activity exerting a strong effect; rather, it was the breadth of social participation—engaging in a variety of volunteer, hobby, learning and club activities—that tended to correlate with lower loneliness.
This adds nuance to a phenomenon that in Japan is often spoken of in hushed tones: the rising prevalence of kodokushi (“孤独死”, lonely deaths) and hikikomori (引きこもり — deep withdrawal from society). For a society long structured around the concepts of ie (家, family home) and mura (村, village/neighbourhood community) where group identity mattered, shifts towards single-person households, the decline of lifetime company employment and weakening of local ties have accelerated detachment.
Adding to that cultural picture, a 2025 survey from the OECD highlights that Japan has seen persistent and growing risks of severe social isolation (社会的孤立, shakai-teki koritsu), especially among men and younger people who disengage from traditional work and community roles. Meanwhile, another government-linked survey reported that about 39% of Japanese adults said they felt lonely “often or always” or “sometimes.”
What stands out from the Hokkaido study is how the type of participation matters for men: carrying on a sense of role, responsibility and belonging appears central to mitigating loneliness. The authors note that in Japan, neighbourhood association leadership is overwhelmingly male, giving retired men an opportunity to shift from workplace identity to community identity. For women, whose social networks are often broader, the key seems to be accessibility and variety — opportunities to join many kinds of groups quietly reduce loneliness.
Yet the picture is also one of urgency. The OECD blog argues that social isolation in Japan carries health, labour market and wider societal costs, and that community-based organisations are stepping in to fill gaps left by formal welfare and family networks. At the same time, discrete local experiments are underway: for example, the country’s government in 2025 allocated further budget to study corporate efforts and local community models aimed at post-retirement social participation and loneliness prevention.
In Japanese culture the term shudan-katsudō (集団活動, group activities) holds social meaning: being part of something larger than oneself, whether it’s a neighbourhood cleanup (町内会, chōnaikai), a sports club, a volunteer team or an adult education circle (学びサークル, manabi–sākuru). When such roles fade—from retirement ending a career identity, or children grown and gone—the scaffolding of connection can shift or collapse. Seniors who lose that scaffolding may drift into isolation not merely because of fewer interactions, but because they lose the sense that they belong.
The lesson this research suggests is clear: tackling loneliness in Japan isn’t just about more social time—it’s about meaningful roles and accessible networks. For older men, creating and supporting structured, meaningful roles like neighbourhood associations or group exercise may help restore connection. For older women, offering a diversity of accessible activity choices supports social engagement. And for society at large, it means recognising that the bonds of community, neighbourhood and informal group participation (町内会活動, chōnaikai katsudō) are as important as the formal health or welfare services.
As Japan’s population continues to age, and as patterns of employment, household composition and community life evolve, the silent epidemic of loneliness demands more than polite awareness. It calls for culturally–anchored strategies that honour the Japanese value of kizuna (絆, bonds) while adapting to 21st-century realities. A retirement gym class may look like small potatoes, but for one older man in Hokkaido it might be what keeps him connected—and alive.
My dears, loneliness is not just a Japanese problem—it’s the quiet shadow creeping across Asia, following our ageing populations as relentlessly as the afternoon sun. But in Japan, the land of coordinated politeness and endless overtime, loneliness takes on a sharper edge. It hides behind bowed heads, immaculate pensions, and spotless kitchens. It whispers in the empty tatami rooms where older men, once company warriors, now sit staring at the clock, wondering where their identity went after their last kaigi (meeting) ended.
Let’s be honest: Japanese men were never trained to have a life outside work. For decades, the system raised them like single-use tools—built for productivity, loyalty, and silence. The company was their home (kaisha wa kazoku, family); the neighbourhood was something their wives managed; the children, well, they barely saw them. Then one day they receive a polite farewell bouquet, a commemorative plaque, and off they go—exiled from the only universe where they knew who they were.
And what happens next? They wander. They hover in the kitchen until their wives gently (or not so gently) push them out. They attend a community meeting once, realise they have no idea how to talk to non-colleagues, and never return. Their sense of self—so tightly wrapped in career, hierarchy, and titles—begins to unravel. Japan has a term for this heartbreak: shisshin (失身, loss of self). And another for the existential shock that retirement brings to men: rōjin jiritsu no kiki (老人人生の危機, crisis of senior independence). Auntie didn’t invent these terms, darling—society did.
Asia is full of cultures that revere elders… in theory. In practice, many older men across the region face a painful truth: they do not know how to live without being needed. Women, bless us, have always built parallel identities—as caregivers, organisers, friends, community glue. When women age, they shift roles rather than lose them. Men? They hit a wall. A silent one.
This is why Japan’s loneliness among older men feels so raw. Retirement strips away not just their schedule but their purpose. Suddenly the sempai-kohai (senior-junior) system evaporates. Nobody bows. Nobody asks for guidance. Nobody depends on them. And in a society where emotional vulnerability is frowned upon, where do these men pour their grief?
Loneliness is not simply being alone; it’s being unseen. And too many older Japanese men feel exactly that—unseen, unheard, unanchored.
So here’s Auntie’s spicy prescription: Japan must stop treating its men like corporate soldiers and start treating them like humans who need community, hobbies, affection, and identity beyond work. Let them discover friendship, cooking clubs, dance classes, even gardening circles. Let them reclaim kizuna (bonds) before they fade. Because no one—no matter how stoic—deserves to retire into silence.