“March Comes in Like a Lion” is far more than a story about a teenage professional shogi player; it is a layered psychological portrait that invites viewers to consider one of psychology’s most enduring questions: how much of who we are is written in our genes, and how much is shaped by the world around us. Through the quiet, often painful journey of Rei Kiriyama, the series unfolds a nuanced exploration of growth and resilience that refuses to settle for simple answers. It shows that the interplay between innate temperament and environmental influence is not a battle with a victor, but a continuous dance that defines human development.

The Nature vs. Nurture Debate in Psychological Science

For decades, psychologists have debated the relative contributions of heredity and environment to personality, intelligence, and mental health. Early framings often pitched the two as opposing forces, but modern research has moved toward a more integrative view. The American Psychological Association notes that psychological traits are rarely the product of either biology or experience alone. Instead, gene-environment interactions shape outcomes in ways that make disentangling the two almost impossible. This insight matters enormously when we turn to a character like Rei, because his story mirrors the same complexity: his prodigious shogi talent appears almost innate, yet his emotional paralysis and eventual healing are profoundly social.

One powerful framework that bridges the gap is epigenetics—the study of how environmental factors can alter gene expression without changing the DNA sequence itself. Research from the National Human Genome Research Institute underscores that life experiences, especially early relationships and stress, can switch genes on or off, influencing mental and physical health later in life. In the world of “March Comes in Like a Lion,” this means Rei’s innate sensitivities are not a fixed destiny; they are continuously modified by the nurturing—or the neglect—he receives from others.

Rei Kiriyama: Innate Talent and Temperament

Nature’s hand in Rei’s character is visible from the earliest episodes. He carries the traits of a shogi prodigy: an extraordinary capacity for pattern recognition, deep concentration, and a strategic mind that operates far beyond his years. These cognitive gifts seem to emerge from a biological foundation, suggesting a genetic predisposition toward the kind of intelligence that the game rewards. His rapid ascent through the professional ranks, despite his youth, speaks to a raw talent that cannot be taught in a textbook.

Yet nature also seems to have painted the hues of his emotional landscape. Rei’s predisposition toward introspection, social anxiety, and even depressive episodes mirrors a temperament that is often heritable. Studies in behavioral genetics have long shown that traits like neuroticism and introversion have substantial genetic components. Rei’s quiet demeanor, his tendency to retreat into silence, and his difficulty articulating feelings align with a biological vulnerability that makes him more sensitive to environmental stressors. The series does not reduce him to a diagnosis, but it does show that some of his struggles originate before he ever sets foot in an unfriendly home. His innate wiring means that the same experiences that might roll off another person’s shoulders hit him with devastating force.

This is where the show’s psychological sophistication shines: it does not treat nature as a curse or a blessing, but as raw material. Rei’s shogi genius and his emotional fragility are two sides of the same coin, and both demand an environment that can shape them toward health or further isolation.

The Power of Nurture: Environment and Relationships

If nature provides the clay, nurture sculpts it. Rei’s early environment is defined by loss and emotional starvation. After his parents and sister die in an accident, he is taken in by the Kouda family, where he becomes a shogi pawn in a competitive household filled with resentment. Rei’s foster father, a shogi professional himself, invests all his hopes in the boy, but at the cost of genuine connection. The father’s obsession with the game and Rei’s talent makes Rei a target of jealousy and emotional abuse, especially from his foster sister Kyouko. This toxic atmosphere is a textbook example of how a lack of secure nurturing can exacerbate pre-existing vulnerabilities, pushing a quiet child into deeper isolation and self-blame.

Rei’s eventual decision to leave the Kouda household and live alone as a minor is a desperate act of self-preservation, but it also removes the last remnants of family structure. Living in a barren apartment, surviving on convenience store meals, and maintaining only the most superficial social contacts, his environment reinforces every negative belief his nature has primed him to feel: that he is a burden, that he does not deserve warmth, that he must earn his right to exist through shogi results.

The Kawamoto Sisters as Catalysts for Change

Everything shifts when Rei stumbles into the Kawamoto household. Akari, Hinata, and Momo offer a radically different form of nurture—one based not on performance or obligation but on unconditional kindness, shared meals, and genuine curiosity about Rei as a person. Their home becomes a corrective emotional experience, a term psychologists use to describe how new, healthier relationships can reshape internal working models formed by earlier trauma.

The sisters do not lecture Rei or try to fix him. Akari’s instinct to feed him, Hinata’s fierce advocacy against bullies, and Momo’s innocent affection slowly chip away at the walls he has built. Each small gesture—offering him a seat at the dinner table, remembering his preferences, walking home with him after school—functions as a reparative act that contradicts his deep-seated belief that he is unworthy of care. Through this steady, gentle nurturing, Rei begins to rediscover a self that exists beyond shogi and beyond survival mode.

The Dark Side of Nurture: Rei’s Abusive Foster Household

To fully appreciate Rei’s growth, one must examine the shadow side of nurture that the series refuses to ignore. Kyouko Kouda’s hostility is not cartoonish villainy; it is the product of her own neglect and the warped expectations placed on her by a father who prizes shogi achievements above all else. Her cruelty toward Rei, including attempts to harm him physically and psychologically, illustrates how a toxic environment can damage both the victim and the perpetrator. The Kouda household shows that nurture is not inherently positive—it is simply powerful. When care is conditional and love is rationed based on performance, the developmental consequences can be as severe as outright abandonment.

Rei’s internalization of Kyouko’s messages—“you stole my father’s love,” “you are nothing without shogi”—becomes a voice of self-criticism that haunts him long after he moves away. This internalized voice is a classic psychological wound; children who grow up in emotionally abusive settings often develop harsh inner critics that perpetuate the neglect even in the absence of the original abuser. Understanding this helps explain why Rei’s healing is so gradual and why the Kawamoto sisters’ support is not just pleasant but essential.

Trauma, Attachment, and the Path to Resilience

Rei’s early loss of his family is a profound rupture in attachment, and attachment theory—first developed by John Bowlby and expanded by contemporary researchers—helps frame the psychological work he must do. Secure attachment in childhood provides a base from which a person can explore the world and regulate emotions. Without it, children often develop anxious or avoidant patterns that can persist into adulthood. Rei’s isolated independence and fear of being a burden align closely with avoidant attachment: he struggles to ask for help, distances himself before others can reject him, and undermines his own need for connection.

The series does not use clinical labels, but it dramatizes the psychological process of developing “earned security.” As Rei repeatedly experiences acceptance and consistency with the Kawamoto family, his attachment style begins to shift. He starts to accept food, accept help, and even seek company, minute breakthroughs that mark genuine psychological growth. The show’s pacing honors the reality that such change is slow and non-linear; after moments of progress, Rei often falls back into self-imposed isolation, reflecting the difficulty of rewriting deep relational blueprints.

Shogi as a Mirror of Inner Life

The game of shogi functions as more than a plot device; it is a psychological mirror that reflects the nature-nurture dynamic at every turn. Rei’s innate talent gives him a formidable opening in the professional world, but his success is not purely a matter of genetic luck. Shogi mastery demands thousands of hours of study, mentorship, and the emotional stability to withstand crushing losses. Rei’s ability to stay in the game, especially during periods of depressive fog, depends heavily on the stability his new relationships provide.

Shogi also serves as a lens through which Rei processes his trauma. The board becomes a controlled space where he can express aggression, defend against threats, and rebuild a sense of agency that was stripped from him as a child. The careful, rule-bound nature of the game contrasts with the chaos of his early life, offering a structured world where his mind can function at its best. In this sense, the game itself becomes a nurturing environment—one that rewards his innate gifts while giving him a sense of order and mastery that his emotional world so often lacks.

Resilience: Not Just Bouncing Back, But Growing Through

Popular culture often portrays resilience as a kind of invulnerability, but “March Comes in Like a Lion” aligns with a more accurate psychological understanding. Resilience is not the absence of distress; it is the capacity to adapt and function despite adversity. Decades of research, including the landmark work of developmental psychologist Ann Masten, have shown that resilience is not a rare superpower but an “ordinary magic” that emerges most reliably when fundamental protective factors—such as caring relationships, community support, and a sense of belonging—are in place (Masten, 2001). Rei’s story is a case study in how resilience is cultivated, not simply found.

The turning point for Rei is not a triumphant shogi match but a quiet moment of self-acceptance: when he finally lets himself cry in front of others, or when he acknowledges that he wants to live connected to people rather than merely survive. These moments of emotional honesty are what psychologists would call post-traumatic growth—positive change experienced as a result of the struggle with adversity. Rei does not erase his past; he integrates it. He begins to see that his sensitivity, the same trait that made him so vulnerable to hurt, can also make him deeply attuned to the suffering of others, as evidenced by his growing protectiveness toward Hinata when she faces her own bullying ordeal.

Lessons for Educators and Mental Health Practitioners

While the series is fictional, its psychological insights carry real-world implications for anyone who works with children, adolescents, or individuals recovering from trauma. First, it demonstrates that talent can coexist with severe emotional suffering. Too often, high achievement masks internal distress, and Rei’s professional accolades might easily have obscured his need for help. The adults in his life who make a difference—such as his shogi teacher Shimada—are those who look beyond performance and see the whole person.

Second, the show highlights the irreplaceable value of everyday relational moments. The Kawamoto sisters do not possess graduate degrees in psychology; they offer hospitality, presence, and unpressured inclusion. This mirrors the literature on therapeutic relationships, which shows that non-judgmental support and consistent responsiveness can be more healing than formal interventions alone. For educators, the message is clear: the classroom or clubroom that offers psychological safety may be the single most important factor in a student’s ability to engage and learn.

Finally, the series affirms that growth is possible even after profound loss. It does not promise that trauma will vanish; instead, it shows that with the right nurturing environment, individuals can build lives of meaning, connection, and even joy. This perspective is essential for preventing burnout among those in helping professions, who must often hold hope for clients who cannot yet hold it for themselves.

Conclusion: The Interwoven Threads of Who We Become

“March Comes in Like a Lion” offers no easy resolution to the nature-nurture question because such a resolution does not exist. Rei Kiriyama is at once a genetic individual with unique gifts and vulnerabilities, and a person sculpted by devastating loss, toxic households, and redemptive relationships. His resilience is not a triumph of nature over nurture or vice versa; it is the emergent property of their ongoing interaction.

By refusing to simplify the human psyche, the series invites its audience to sit with complexity and to recognize that our growth is never entirely within our own control, nor entirely out of it. The seasons depicted in the title—the lion that arrives with the force of March—suggest that life’s harshness will come, but so will the warmth that follows. Rei’s journey reminds us that while we cannot always choose the hand we are dealt, the people who gather around our table and the environments we build together can reorient us toward healing, one meal and one shared moment at a time.

For those who want to explore the series directly, the official anime adaptation is available on Crunchyroll, and the original manga continues to offer a deeply resonant meditation on mental health and human connection.