New Teacher in a New Country: My JET Spring in Japan

When I stepped off the plane at Haneda with two suitcases, a contract for the JET Programme, and my resume still warm from graduation, I didn’t realize how much of my life would be rewritten by chalk dust, cherry blossoms, and the distance between “hello” and “I understand.” Nine months later, as pink petals stick to my bicycle basket and the new school year hums along, I still have moments of confusion—but also many more of belonging.

Why Japan and the JET Leap

I applied to JET in my final semester back in Australia because I wanted to teach and to live somewhere that would push me beyond my comfort zone. I got the email in June: placed in Matsuyama, Ehime—orange groves, a castle, and the mildest winter I could hope for. I’d never been to Shikoku. My parents were thrilled. I was thrilled and terrified in equal measure.

Tokyo Orientation in August felt like the world’s most polite boot camp. Jet-lagged sessions on lesson planning and school culture. Nerves soothed by the collective buzz of hundreds of us in suits trying to look like we belonged. I learned that an ALT’s job is part teacher, part cultural bridge, part enthusiastic cheerleader. I liked that idea.

Paperwork, Visas, and the First Big Hurdles

The paperwork was less romantic and more spreadsheet. My contracting organization handled the Certificate of Eligibility. With that, I applied for an “Instructor” status of residence at the Japanese consulate in Sydney—passport, visa forms, photos, and patience. When I arrived in Japan, immigration handed me a residence card at the airport. It felt like the official start.

Within two weeks of settling in, I had to register my address at the city hall, sign up for health insurance and pension, and open a bank account. A city hall staffer patiently guided me through a maze of forms. I learned the word “inkan” the hard way—my first bank tried to send me away until I produced my little name stamp. Pro tip: get the stamp made early; it saves time and face.

Housing and the Money Reality Check

My predecessor left me a small 1K apartment near a tram stop. It came with a futon, a rice cooker, and exactly one spoon. The monthly rent is 52,000 yen, a good deal for the city, plus about 8,000–12,000 yen in utilities depending on how reckless I am with the heater. Move-in hurt: a month’s rent, deposit, and initial fees landed around 150,000 yen. I was grateful to buy furniture second-hand and inherit a lot (including an alarmingly loud vacuum).

JET wages are steady—my first year is 3.36 million yen before deductions. After taxes, health insurance, and pension, I usually take home around 220,000–240,000 yen a month. I budget 30,000–40,000 yen for groceries (conbini onigiri add up fast), and set aside something for travel and language classes. My bicycle was 10,000 yen at a local shop, plus a little registration fee that made me feel like a licensed adult.

The First Lesson I Taught and the Many I Learned

Classes started in September, and at first, I could hear my heart in my ears. My co-teacher, Yamamoto-sensei, introduced me at the opening assembly as “Michael-sensei from Australia.” The students gasped at the height; I’m only 187 cm, but I felt like a lighthouse.

My first lesson was a disaster by any objective measure. I spoke too fast. The “two truths and a lie” activity bombed because I didn’t explain the rules clearly. A boy in the back asked how many kangaroos I owned. None, I said, to general disappointment. Still, after class, a girl shyly approached to say, “Your English is very… easy.” I think she meant it as a compliment. I took it as one.

This April, a new school year started with entrance ceremonies. Parents in pressed suits, first-years in uniforms that seemed to wear them rather than the other way around. I understood more of the speeches this time, even the gentle jokes. I made a lesson introducing Australian autumn to a roomful of Japanese spring.

Language: Where Every Victory Is Tiny and Real

I’ve learned that my confidence in the morning can wither by lunchtime when someone speaks at normal speed. Keigo remains my white whale. I once told the vice-principal I was extremely delicious instead of extremely grateful. He blinked, then burst into laughter and taught me the right phrase on the spot. We’re still on good terms.

To push myself, I joined a weekly language exchange at the community center. It’s part tea party, part dialogue practice. We talk about footy and umeboshi, and I’ve started to recognize Ehime’s local dialect in the way neighbors drag vowels on the tram. Spring added seasonal words to my vocabulary: hanami, koinobori, shun.

Spring in Ehime: Hanami, Golden Week, and Finding a Rhythm

Spring smells different here. The first warm day, my school’s cherry trees unfolded like a magic trick. Teachers took photos like proud parents. We laid blue tarps under the petals after school one Friday and had a mini-hanami with canned coffee and store-bought mochi, because we’re teachers and it was still a workday.

Golden Week was a revelation—several national holidays compressed into a mini-respite. I biked along the river and watched carp streamers flap above houses for Children’s Day. At a small shrine festival, I helped carry a portable shrine for exactly four wobbling minutes before a grandfather with forearms of steel reclaimed it with a grin.

I also met Japan’s cedar pollen up close. My students schooled me on masks and eye drops. One boy handed me tissues with surgical precision and said, “For teacher’s nose.” Dignity is optional in spring.

Work Culture and the Quiet Things That Matter

There’s a rhythm to school life I’ve grown to love. Morning greetings echo down the hallway. Students clean classrooms after lunch. We bow into meetings. Staff room coffee tastes like courage. Enkai (work dinners) feel both formal and warm; I brought Australian biscuits as omiyage and was told I used “Japanese spirit.”

Expectations are high but clear. I’ve learned to arrive early, to label everything, to ask questions in the staff room even if I mangle the grammar. I screw up. I apologize. I try again. My biggest surprise? The quiet kindness. A librarian slipped me an English copy of Natsume Sōseki and a note: “Spring is good for new beginnings.”

Community: How I Found People

The JET network is a lifeline; our prefectural group has monthly meetups, but my most meaningful connections grew out of small routines. The tea shop lady who remembers my order. The retired couple who invited me to a neighborhood cleanup and later to their living room for mandarin oranges so sweet they erased my homesickness for a minute. The futsal club that tolerated my first clumsy pass and now texts me about weekend games.

If you’re shy, Japanese community spaces are forgiving. I offered to help at an English kids’ club on Saturdays. Suddenly I had parents asking me questions about studying abroad and kids asking me if drop bears are real. For the record: no, and also maybe, if you don’t do your homework.

Healthcare and Staying Well

Enrolling in health insurance meant I pay 30% at the counter and the rest is covered. My first clinic visit was for that relentless spring pollen; I walked out with tiny pills, eye drops, and a new respect for prescription efficiency. Everything was tidy, quick, and surprisingly affordable.

JET contributions to pension felt weird at first—I’m 22, retirement is an abstract painting—but I’ve learned I can apply for a partial lump-sum withdrawal if I leave after a few years. I also registered a tax representative back home, which sounded very adult. Bring any specific medications you rely on and a doctor’s note; I found equivalents here, but the first few weeks are easier with familiar labels.

Daily Life: Trams, Trash, and the Shape of a Week

My days have gotten lighter as I’ve learned the rules. I finally mastered garbage sorting: burnables, plastics, PET bottles with the caps off, cans, glass, and that mysterious “other” day when my cracked umbrella goes. I use an IC card for the tram, but the bike wins most days. I cook simple dinners—miso soup and grilled fish—and treat myself to udon on Fridays. Sunday mornings, I call home and update Mum on the state of my laundry and whether the cherry blossoms are “still on.”

My best purchase was a dehumidifier. My second-best was a second spoon.

Cultural Surprises I Grew to Love

Shoes off at the genkan is a habit I brought into my own home with an embarrassing amount of pride. I buy omiyage now without rolling my eyes, because the delight on a colleague’s face is worth the extra detour. I slipped once and wore toilet slippers into the corridor; students laughed and then a girl quietly fetched my indoor shoes. They are watching, but mostly to help.

I’ve learned to embrace silence—on trains, in staff rooms, between sentences. It’s not awkward, it’s space.

If You’re Considering This Path

• Expect the first three months to be hard in ways you didn’t plan for. Make one system a week: where you shop, how you pay bills, when you study Japanese.
• Budget for move-in costs and a slow first payday. Bring a cushion if you can.
• Say yes to invitations, even if you’re tired or nervous. That’s where community starts.
• Learn five practical phrases before any keigo: “Could you say that again slowly?” has saved me more than any textbook honorific.
• Pack light but bring a comfort thing from home. For me, it was a footy scarf that now hangs by my door like a small flag of courage.
• Remember spring. The school year resets in April; if your autumn felt messy, spring is a gentle second start.

Looking Back, Looking Forward

The day I finally explained “drop bears” and idioms in a way that made my third-years laugh with me, not at me, I realized I was no longer pretending to be a teacher. I am one, learning as I go. I still stumble over keigo. I still feel suddenly very Australian when I cheer too loudly at sports day practice. But I also catch myself bowing into the staff room and meaning it.

Under the last of the cherry blossoms, a student asked me, “Why did you come to Japan?” I said, “To teach.” Then I added, “To learn to live somewhere new.” Both are true. In spring, both feel possible.

With hope for your journey,