Lessons in Leadership from Japan #4
Lessons in Leadership from Japan – A Place and People that quietly changed how I lead.
In France we say « L’habit ne fait pas le moine ». Literally : “the cloak does not make the monk”. But I want to talk to you about a place where it’s actually the opposite, where « L’habit fait le moine » – “The cloak makes the monk”.
A few weeks ago, I was packing to go in a business trip to Japan. I was pondering what I should wear. It might sound like a trivial question, but in Japan it isn’t. And no, it’s not about the reliability of the weather forecast.
In fact, I know a coach colleague who once received a complaint from a client because she was wearing boots while facilitating a workshop. Not because the workshop was poor. Not because participants were unhappy. Because of the boots.
Photo credit : Hanna Eberhard on Unsplash
In any culture, wearing the appropriate clothes is a strong sign of showing up as a professional. It signals that you understand your role, the situation and the people around you. But nowhere is it as true as in Japan.
Japanese work culture has a kind of formality to it. Maybe less now than before, but as I was visiting a client last month north of Tokyo, I could still see that it remains very much alive in the industrial and technology sectors. In the cafeteria, the only people without a company jacket or company shirt were us, the visitors.
The way you dress (and the way you behave) are strong indicators of your belonging to a company or a group. They show that you are willing to do what it takes to conform to the group and, quietly, display your loyalty and respect for your company, your colleagues, your team and your customers. Clothing serves a social function: creating a visible sense of shared identity and emphasizing distinctions between different groups.
Where, other than Japan, do you still find office workers, white collars in uniform? In most countries today, office workers no longer wear one. When people wear a uniform to work, it is usually because they need it for their job: to comply with safety regulations, hygiene requirements or for protection, or because they belong to a profession where a uniform serves a practical purpose (think Disneyland).
In fact, psychologists have a term for this: enclothed cognition. The idea that what we wear influences how we think, feel, and behave. And Japan offers a fascinating example.
As I was wondering what to pack, I realized something else. None of my workshop participants, mostly engineers coming from Europe, seemed to be asking themselves the same question. They had all travelled to Japan before and simply packed what they usually wear for work.
It made me smile. That’s what it means, to become tatamisée.
In 2010, after nine years living in Japan, I moved back to France. Not long afterwards, I had a meeting with a client in a bank. Several senior managers were attending, so without thinking twice I put on my Japanese suit: grey suit, white shirt.
Bank. Senior managers. Suit. That was simply what professionalism looked like to me.
I arrived at the meeting with my tatamisée working self. The first surprise came as soon as I entered the meeting room. It was before COVID, and instead of shaking hands—or bowing, as I had become used to—everyone was doing la bise. You know, the typical french way to kiss on both cheeks. I was already slightly thrown off.
Then I looked around the room. The most senior leader was wearing denim jacket and skirt. Other people were dressed much more casually than I expected. I was the only one wearing a suit. At the first opportunity, I quietly took off my jacket. Once we were seated, at least only the white shirt was visible.
I remember feeling very embarrassed.
Looking back, what strikes me is not that I wore a suit. There was nothing wrong with wearing a suit. What strikes me is that, without realizing it, Japan had completely changed my idea of what a professional looked like.
Back to packing my suitcase…
As a foreigner in Japan, I know that it’s inevitable that I will stand out. In fact I’m there precisely because I’m not Japanese. So every time I travel to Japan, I look for a kind of middle ground between the traditional Japanese business attire—black skirt, white shirt, black shoes—and my more classic French facilitator style: business chic, a little more colourful, with one small elegant detail.
As my 2010 story illustrates, the moment you returned from Japan and found yourself in a room full of French bankers wearing jeans, you immediately understood something about French professional culture—without anybody having to explain it.
In that sense, the French proverb almost flips upside down. For years, the habit did make the monk. Not because the clothing magically created professionalism, but because the clothing helped reinforce a shared understanding of what it meant to be professional.
Looking back, I realised this isn’t about packing clothes at all. I was packing an idea of what a professional should look like. Japan had quietly slipped that idea into my suitcase years before, and I carry it back to France or wherever I go without even noticing.
Every culture has its own version of “the suit”: a dress code, a way to greet or meet people. Most of the time, we don’t even notice these symbols, these rituals. They simply become what professionalism looks like.
The habit made the monk — and revealed which monastery he belonged to.
I write about Japan, but these stories are really about perspective. After fifteen years living there, I realised that the country’s greatest gift wasn’t teaching me how people in Japan live, work and lead—it was revealing the assumptions I carried with me. Through these journeys, I hope to invite readers to become travelers too: a little more curious, a little less certain, and a little more open to the many ways of the world.
After all, the most meaningful journeys don’t just change what we see. They change us and how we see.
Bénédicte / The Great Floating Tribe
