This article is taken from the summer 2025 issue of Dazed. Buy a copy of the magazine here.

Tokyo’s Shibuya 109 is a 10-storey fashion mall best known, locally at least, for popularising the city’s gyaru subculture. After spending an hour on hair and make-up, 21-year-old Lisa commutes an hour and a half into the city six days a week to work the shop floor. “It’s fun, but tiring. I don’t want to do this forever,” she says, combing her 3D nails through perfectly bleached curls. “Rent is expensive in Tokyo, and wages are low… I work here because I love fashion, but I’m not sure it’s sustainable long-term.”

The mall is located just behind the Shibuya Scramble, the world’s busiest pedestrian crossing. Young salarymen dart between clusters of tourists, accosted by street workers handing out flyers for all-you-can-drink izakayas (bars). LED screens tower above them, blasting ads for skincare while glitchy J-pop loops out of vans promoting hostess clubs. To the outsider, Tokyo is exactly as advertised: loud, vibrant and in-your-face chaotic. But for most young people who live here, life in 2025 is not like Tokyo Drift or Lost in Translation. It’s quiet, structured and demure, lived out far from the glossy towers and streaked-out fantasies of this mega-city.

A 2024 survey of almost 6,000 young people found that only 13.9 per cent of Japanese respondents were hopeful about the future. Their main concerns? Declining birth rate, an ageing society and economic stagnation. Mizuki, 24, and Konoha, 23, are both students at Tokyo University of the Arts, the country’s leading art school. Their outfits mix thrifted and trending pieces: Mizuki explains how she’s inspired by Lolita style – all ribbons, lace and frills – while Konoha blends vintage with a grungy edge. At uni, they’re surrounded by young, creative people, but they still feel the impact of an ageing population. “There are so many grandmas and grandpas around,” says Konoha, who works part-time at a doughnut shop in the east side of the city. “I feel like I’m surrounded by old people; I don’t see many kids my age. Even at work, there aren’t many children coming in for doughnuts – it’s just old people.”

I made a ton of friends quickly when I arrived through clubbing and doing all-nighters in Shibuya 

Japan’s child population reached a historic low of 14 million in 2024 – meaning there are now four times as many senior citizens as there are children. It’s one of the starkest demographic imbalances in the world, and with the government ramping up incentives from cash handouts to subsidised childcare, young women are feeling the weight of expectation. “I do feel like I should have two children, at least,” says Konoha. Mizuki agrees, but only if she can afford it. “Everything seems to be getting more expensive, but wages – even for corporate workers – aren’t increasing,” she says. Amid this widening gap between income and inflation, the idea of starting a family feels more like a financial risk than a life goal in cities like Tokyo, where rent, food and transport eat into already tight paychecks.

On top of that, the weak yen has fuelled a boom in tourism, making daily life even more expensive for locals. A 2024 study found that almost 60 per cent of Gen Z and millennial tourists visiting Japan relied on social media for travel recommendations. This is driving huge crowds to specific restaurants, filming locations and neighbourhoods – like Tokyo’s secondhand mecca, Shimokitazawa. The area’s stores are filled with vintage designer pieces, but interest from western visitors is driving up prices. “I’ve been thrifting there for years, but recently it’s gotten so expensive,” says Konoha. Tokyo is a treasure trove for all kinds of secondhand goods – trading cards, retro games, cameras and vinyl among them. Visitors will rave about the low costs of these items, but “Japan only feels cheap to tourists”, says Mizuki. For many young people in Tokyo, travelling feels increasingly out of reach, and while they’re happy to see the return of tourism, “it’s just so busy,” counters Mizuki. “I’m also kind of jealous of them. We’re trapped in Tokyo while they get to travel around.” Still, neither of them want to leave Tokyo. “We still love it here… The food is good, the city is clean, and it’s safe.” Konoha agrees – she’s never had to think twice about walking home at night, she says. “Even drinking in the park as a group of girls is totally safe. At worst, you might come across a cranky grandpa.”

But not everyone I speak to here agrees. Shingo, Rikuto, Haru and Akane, all 21, are playing badminton in Yoyogi Park when I approach them on a sunny Tuesday afternoon. They all moved here from Japan’s northernmost island, Hokkaido, to pursue a career in acting, and work various part-time jobs in restaurants, supermarkets and cinemas to pay the bills. “Tokyo definitely has more opportunities, especially for subcultures like [pop] idol events and anime,” says Shingo, “but it does feel unsafe.” Rikuto says he consciously avoids areas like Kabukicho, Tokyo’s colourful and controversial red light district. Packed with clubs, hostess bars and love hotels, these backstreets have made headlines in recent years for attracting homeless teenagers, known as the Toyoko kids. “It’s for people who don’t have anywhere to go,” says Kaho, 19, who works at a nearby boutique. Kaho is dressed all in black with chunky silver jewellery – a get-up that’s become synonymous with Toyoko kids. She doesn’t identify as one personally, but knows many kids that do. “A lot of them don’t get on with their families, so they come here to find other kids going through the same thing. Everyone kind of knows they’re working on the streets or in night jobs. They’ll stay in super-cheap apartments, or cram into hotel rooms – sometimes five or six people sharing.”

It’s always been a dream to come here, [but] people don’t seem to have lives outside of work

A 2024 report in The Japan Times confirmed that underage prostitution and drug-taking were common among this subculture. But on a broader scale, drug-consumption among young people in Japan is low in comparison to other countries. Only 1.4% of Japanese people aged 15 to 64 have smoked weed, according to a 2018 survey by the National Center of Neurology and Psychiatry. To compare, 7.4% of respondents in a UK survey from 2022 reported having used the drug within the past year. Unlike western centres of art and culture – like London, Paris or Berlin – raving isn’t considered a rite of passage for young people, either. Akane has never been to one. She thinks it’s “scary”, and something that ‘bad’ kids do; her friends also shared this view. Kyan, 27, who works at a bar and in events management, disagrees. “In Tokyo, you don’t go to clubs unless you’re really into the music. And these places can be good or bad depending on what you’re looking for,” she says. “These days, some people use clubs as a way to look for connections or to meet people… It just depends on who you are.”

Mizuki, 22, is a Japanese-Lebanese artist who relocated back to Tokyo three years ago. “I made a ton of friends quickly when I arrived through clubbing and doing all-nighters in Shibuya,” she says. “It makes sense why clubbing would get a bad rap, because it’s seen as promiscuous – many clubs charge men more than women… But it’s weird because many salarymen will get shit-faced on a weeknight and sleep outside. Why is that OK, and not clubbing?”

The same social codes that make it safe for people to pass out on the street at 2am can also make society feel intensely suffocating for those that don’t fit the mould. Even as art school students, Mizuki and Konoha feel the pressure to assimilate. Kuuki wo yomu – loosely translating to ‘read the room’ – is an important cultural concept in Japan. “It’s about understanding the mood and not standing out. You adjust your behaviour so you don’t disturb others,” Konoha explains. For those that moved to Tokyo from abroad, like Nafhan, 24, these unspoken social codes feel stifling. “There’s a lack of cultural and personal diversity in daily life, which creates pressure to blend in,” says the writer and designer, who moved here from Jakarta three years ago. “I’ve found diversity among my friends, but I miss living somewhere where individuality was visible and celebrated.”

Living here can sometimes feel like living in a Barbie world

While the city feeds her imagination and creativity, Nafhan struggles with feelings of isolation from global culture, and frustrations with outdated systems. All of this makes her unsure about staying in Tokyo long-term. “Living here can sometimes feel like living in a Barbie world,” she says. “The country operates very inwardly and is distant from everything outside of it… from global issues like news and politics to pop culture.” In the western psyche, Tokyo might exist as a glistening, highly technological city, Nafhan adds, but “ the reality is different. You still can’t tap a credit card to take the subway, and all registration matters are done on paper and in person.”

Nowhere are the city’s antiquated rules more obvious than in the workplace. Shun, 22, is about to start a full-time role at a major insurance firm in Marunouchi, an area known for its strict suits-andsilence office culture. Still, he’s optimistic. “Honestly, I’m looking forward to it,” he says. “I think it’ll make me more independent. I’ll finally learn how to manage money properly, wake up early and do things on my own. I know it will be intense, but I feel like I’ll come out of it more resilient.” Michael, 23, offers a different perspective, having moved over from London to take up a four-month role as a business analyst. “It’s always been a dream to come here – the lights, the cars, the fashion… I knew that work wouldn’t be easy, but I didn’t know the scale of it.” He explains that, in most Japanese companies, leaving at 6pm is considered early. “You look around, thinking about leaving, and feel guilty for packing your bag,” he says. “People don’t seem to have lives outside of work. They arrive at 8am and leave at 9pm – every day.” The unspoken rules of corporate Japan are so draconian there’s a common term describing death from overwork: karoshi.

In recent years, Japan’s younger generation has begun to push back, with only 30% of young people feeling that climbing the corporate ladder is important, according to a recent survey by the Japan Research Institute. Echoing this dissatisfaction with the status quo, a new wave of activism is emerging, from feminist zines to anti-nuclear protests and the Palestine movement. Natsuki, 26, became politicised after seeing a Black Lives Matter protest while studying abroad. “Japan is a very apolitical environment, especially during school, so I didn’t really know what a protest was,” she says. A couple of years later, a shocking incident in Tokyo made headlines. An incel man had stabbed a university student on a train, because she was a woman. Spurred into action, Natsuki went on to lead feminist activities, and later joined the Palestinian resistance. One of the first protests she organised was Queer for Palestine, in November 2023. “I wanted people to know that it’s all connected,” she says.

The idea of starting a family [here] feels more like a financial risk than a life goal

Born in 1998, Natsuki has spent most of her life in a society governed by the right-wing Liberal Democratic Party. “I do feel a change in political and social awareness among young people in Japan,” she reflects. “We can see what’s happening in the world through our screens, and learn about what we haven’t been taught in school… Palestine is a critical turning point for many youths here too, the same as it is for other youths around the world.” There are other forms of resistance, too, like DIY noise gigs and drag nights, often hosted in basement galleries or live houses (small club venues that often double as bars). From queer zine fairs to film screenings and cosplay meet-ups, the city is dense with possibilities.

At the time of writing, the cherry blossom has finally reached its peak in Tokyo. Tourists angle their phones for the perfect shot, while groups of young people gather in parks to share bentos and cans of pre-mixed chūhai (alcoholic drinks). Back at 109, Lisa is getting ready for the summer season, folding pleated skirts and baby tees into perfect piles. On the floor below, a group of high school girls crowd around a purikura (photo booth), their matching bags studded with badges of their favourite idol groups. Outside, everything feels loud, bright and fleeting – a scramble of flashing lights and people moving in all different directions. On reflection, the Shibuya crossing itself is a perfect embodiment of the push and pull of life in this city: the beauty, the burnout and everything in between.