Intro
When I was younger, I believed that hard work and passion were all I needed to build a meaningful career. I graduated with high hopes, eager to carve out my place in the world—not just as a professional, but as a woman with ambition. I imagined working in a modern company, traveling abroad for business, maybe even leading a team someday. At that time, I honestly thought that gender wouldn’t be a huge barrier, especially in a developed country like Japan.
But somewhere along the way, reality didn’t match that dream.
Now, as a married woman living in Tokyo with two young kids, I often find myself staring at job listings after putting the kids to bed—feeling both inspired and guilty. I still want to work. I still want to grow. But the path ahead isn’t straightforward.
The other day, I came across a term I hadn’t thought about in years: the “M-Curve.” It’s a graph that shows Japanese women’s labor force participation by age. The curve starts high in their 20s, dips sharply in the 30s (when many marry or have children), and then rises again in the 40s. The result looks like the letter “M.” When I saw it again, it hit me like a mirror. That curve wasn’t just a statistic—it was my life.
I’m currently in the bottom of that “M,” where so many women quietly disappear from the workforce. Not because we lack ambition or skills—but because the structure around us isn’t built to support working mothers. And because, whether we admit it or not, Japanese society still carries deep-rooted expectations about what a “good mother” or “good wife” should look like.
When I was working full-time, I used to stay late at the office—even though I was exhausted—just to prove that I was committed. After having kids, that same work ethic felt impossible. I had to rush out to pick up my son before daycare closed. I couldn’t go to networking events, or say yes to after-hours meetings. Eventually, I stepped away from full-time work. I told people it was “temporary,” but deep down I wasn’t so sure.
It’s not that I regret getting married or becoming a mom—far from it. But I never expected that building a family would feel like the end of my professional identity. I see other women like me at the park, chatting politely as our toddlers play. Many were once teachers, designers, IT engineers—even managers. We don’t talk about our careers much now. Instead, we share recipes, school gossip, or tips on how to get into a good hoikuen (daycare).
There’s a strange loneliness that comes with this phase. Not because I’m unhappy as a mother, but because part of me still longs to grow in ways that aren’t limited to home. And I know I’m not alone.
That’s why I wanted to write this blog post—not to complain, but to be honest. To put words to something so many women feel but rarely express out loud. To talk about the “M-Curve” not just as a graph, but as a living experience.
In the next parts, I’ll talk about what this dilemma really feels like day to day. The pressure from both family and workplace. The unexpected joys and heavy trade-offs. The internal tug-of-war between dreams and duties. And how I’m slowly trying to reshape my path—not back to where I was before, but toward something new, and hopefully, sustainable.
Because I believe there’s room for both ambition and tradition—but only if we dare to talk about the messy middle.
Rising Conflict
It didn’t hit me all at once. It was a slow, creeping realization. The kind that builds over time—between missed career opportunities and small, everyday compromises.
When I got pregnant with my first child, I was still working full-time at a small design company. My manager was supportive on the surface, but the unspoken message was clear: once I went on maternity leave, I’d basically checked out of the game. I remember one of my coworkers—a single man in his 30s—joking that I was “joining the forever vacation club.” I laughed it off. But it stung.
After giving birth, I applied for daycare. If you’re not familiar with Japan’s daycare system, let me tell you—it’s brutal. It doesn’t matter how badly you want to return to work; if you don’t meet the city’s point system, you’re out. The irony? Because I had left my job temporarily to take care of my newborn, I didn’t have enough points to qualify for daycare—so I couldn’t get back to work. It felt like a trap.
By the time I managed to get my child into a hoikuen (public daycare), my skills felt a bit rusty. I tried applying for part-time jobs, but the roles were either underpaid, unstable, or demanded full flexibility I couldn’t offer. Employers would ask, “Can you work overtime?” or “Are you available on weekends?”—as if motherhood came with an off-switch. One even asked during an interview, “What will you do if your child gets sick?”
What will I do? I’ll be a mother. What else can I do?
At home, the pressure was different—but just as intense. My husband wanted to support me, but we were both raised in households where mothers stayed home. His mother still cooks three meals a day and irons his father’s socks. My in-laws would say things like, “You’re lucky to stay home and enjoy these precious years,” or “A child needs their mother at this age.” No one ever said it directly, but I could feel it—every time I picked up my child in work clothes, or mentioned I was job hunting. Like I was being selfish.
And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about myself in all of this. Not just the version of me who made bento lunches and attended PTA meetings, but the part of me that once led meetings, handled clients, and had her own paycheck. That identity hadn’t disappeared—it was just quietly waiting.
But every time I tried to step forward, the walls rose again. The lack of flexible work. The silent judgment. The emotional guilt. The system wasn’t built for women like me—those who wanted to mother and work and grow.
I realized that the “M-Curve” isn’t just about economics. It’s about energy. When we dip in our 30s, it’s not because we lack talent or desire. It’s because we’re running double races—professional and personal—with little to no support. And many women just give up. Some because they want to. But many because they feel they have to.
I’ve cried over job rejections that never even looked at my resume. I’ve debated whether taking a remote freelance gig is worth the stress of juggling Zoom meetings during nap time. I’ve felt jealous of women who chose to focus solely on family—and also jealous of women who kept their careers on track. In a society that often pushes us to pick one identity, I constantly feel like I’m failing at both.
This isn’t just my story. I’ve heard it echoed at community centers, at the pediatrician’s office, even in quiet whispers on playground benches.
And yet, despite the exhaustion and uncertainty, something in me still wants more. I haven’t given up yet.
turning
The shift didn’t come in one big, dramatic moment. It came in tiny ones. Quiet, almost invisible acts of resistance.
One of them happened during a rainy afternoon in a Tokyo café. I had just dropped my son off at daycare—he finally got a spot after our third application—and I sat down with a hot cup of coffee and my laptop. For the first time in a long time, I wasn’t rushing anywhere. I opened a blank document and began updating my resume.
It had been almost three years.
At first, I froze. Should I even include the gap? Should I call myself a “homemaker”? Should I downplay my previous titles? I hesitated. Then I stopped. I wrote the truth:
Career break (201X–202X): Focused on early childhood care while independently studying UI/UX design and freelancing as a translator. Continued professional development through online courses and community projects.
That small paragraph may not seem like much, but for me, it was a declaration. I was no longer apologizing for my life as a mother. I was integrating it.
After that day, I set a rule: just one step a day. One online course module. One email. One application. One blog post. I began writing about my experiences—partly as a portfolio, partly as therapy. To my surprise, people responded. Other women reached out to say, “I thought I was the only one.” Some were in the same stage of the “M”; others had already returned to work and were looking for meaning. The loneliness I once felt began to soften.
I also started joining online communities—mostly global, mostly women-led. Many were full of mothers just like me. From different countries, different languages, but the same core dilemma: how to balance care and career in systems that weren’t designed for both. In those late-night chats, I found support, ideas, even mentors.
One woman from Canada introduced me to remote freelance platforms. Another mom from India shared how she rebranded herself as a “consultant” instead of a “job-seeker.” I realized something: while the “M-Curve” is most visible in Japan, the motherhood-career conflict is everywhere. But in some countries, there’s more flexibility. More vocabulary. More grace.
That pushed me to be braver. I stopped waiting for the “perfect” job or the “ideal” time. I started pitching myself for small freelance gigs. Design, writing, localization. Some paid pennies. Some ghosted me. But a few said yes.
And with each yes, I felt myself coming back to life.
I began carving out a routine—not perfect, but mine. Work during daycare hours. Write during nap time. Rest (or collapse) after bedtime. I’m not going to lie—it was hard. There were days I wanted to quit. There still are. But I finally felt I was moving forward, however slowly.
The biggest change wasn’t just the work—it was my mindset.
I stopped trying to return to who I was before motherhood. I started building something new: a hybrid identity. One where I could say, “Yes, I’m a mother and a creator.” “Yes, I care for my family and my future.” Where I no longer saw the “M” as a drop—but as a pivot.
That doesn’t mean Japan has changed. The system is still full of cracks. The expectations haven’t disappeared. But what’s changed is how I see myself inside of it. Not as a woman who “gave up” her career, but as one who’s redefining it.
conclude
When I look back now, I see that my journey through the “M-Curve” wasn’t just a detour—it was a transformation.
I didn’t go back to who I was before becoming a mother. I became someone entirely new.
Today, I work part-time from home as a freelance designer and content writer. I may not be climbing the corporate ladder like I once imagined, but I’m building something of my own—step by step, hour by hour, often in between diaper changes and grocery runs. I no longer measure my success by titles or salary alone. I measure it by how aligned I feel between who I am and what I do.
But it took me years to understand that. And along the way, I realized something more important: individual effort isn’t enough.
Yes, I found ways to reclaim my career. But what about the women who don’t have a partner to share childcare duties with? Or the women living in rural areas without access to quality daycare or remote work options? What about the mothers whose mental load is so heavy that they can’t even begin to think about themselves?
We can’t fix the “M-Curve” dilemma one woman at a time. We need structural change.
We need employers who see maternity leave not as a red flag but as a natural part of life.
We need government policies that support flexible work, quality childcare, and re-skilling programs.
We need media that stops portraying working moms as either “superwomen” or “selfish.”
And maybe most of all, we need cultural permission—for women to be complex, contradictory, and complete.
It starts in the smallest places. When we stop judging the mom who chooses to work. Or the one who doesn’t. When we ask fathers to take more than just two weeks of paternity leave—and mean it. When we normalize career gaps and treat caregiving as real labor.
The “M-Curve” might be just a graph on paper, but for many of us, it reflects decades of silence. And now, we’re finally starting to speak up.
I wrote this post not just to tell my story, but to connect. If you’re reading this and you’re somewhere on your own “M”—whether you’re at the top, in the dip, or on your way back up—I want you to know you’re not alone. And you’re not failing.
You are adapting in a system that wasn’t designed for your full potential.
And even now, you are valuable.
To those who feel stuck: start small. Learn one new skill. Write that email. Ask for help. Apply even if you don’t feel “ready.”
To companies: talent doesn’t disappear during motherhood. It evolves. If you want innovative, resilient, multi-tasking professionals—look no further than mothers.
To Japan, my home: I still believe we can do better. Not by copying Western systems, but by creating something that reflects our own unique strengths—community, perseverance, creativity. A version of society where tradition and ambition don’t cancel each other out—but enrich one another.
As for me, I’m still walking this tightrope. Still juggling schedules, dreams, and family dinners. But now, I do it with less shame and more intention.
Maybe the curve won’t flatten overnight. But the more we talk, the more we listen, and the more we support each other, the more that “M” can become a bridge—not a trap.
Final Thought:
This story isn’t finished, because I’m not finished.
And if you’re reading this while feeling torn between your past, your present, and your potential—know this: your story matters too.
Let’s rewrite the curve together.
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