There’s a word we use in Japan that doesn’t quite translate into English: “wan-ope.”
It’s short for “one operation”—as in, one parent doing all the work. And if you’re a mother in Japan, you probably don’t need an explanation. You’ve lived it.
I know I have.
From the outside, my life might look “normal.” Two kids, a husband with a stable job, a tidy apartment. The classic Tokyo family. But most days, it feels like I’m doing it alone.
Breakfast, school prep, laundry, groceries, homework, dinner, baths, bedtime—all on me.
When I try to describe it to friends overseas, they say, “Oh, you’re a stay-at-home mom.”
But it’s more than that. It’s not just staying home. It’s holding down the entire fort, while the other adult in the house disappears into the demands of the salaryman system.
My husband is not a bad person. He’s kind. He loves the kids. But his job? It owns him.
Twelve-hour days are standard. Work calls on weekends. Company drinking parties that go until midnight.
It’s not just him—it’s the system. A system that assumes mothers are available 24/7, that childcare is a “private matter,” and that fathers are little more than weekend guests in their children’s lives.
What does that leave us with?
A quiet epidemic of exhausted women pretending to be fine.
We carry everything—physically, emotionally, mentally—and yet, somehow, we’re invisible.
I remember when my second child was born. My husband was given one day off. One.
After that, I was alone. Healing from childbirth. Managing a toddler. Running on two hours of sleep and too much guilt.
I didn’t feel like a mother. I felt like a machine.
And yet, when I looked around, no one seemed to talk about it.
Not at the park. Not in the PTA. Not even at the pediatrician’s office. Everyone smiled and said, “大変だけど頑張ってます (It’s hard, but I’m doing my best).”
Behind those smiles, I saw it—fatigue, frustration, isolation. But no one dared say it out loud.
Until now.
In this blog post, I want to break the silence around solo parenting in Japan—not to complain, but to tell the truth.
About the loneliness. The invisible labor. The quiet rage. And also, the small acts of resilience that keep us going.
Because if no one talks about it, nothing changes.
And if you’re reading this from another country and wondering, “Is it really like that in Japan?”—my answer is: yes. But it doesn’t have to stay that way.
I hope this post helps you see what’s behind the bento boxes and the polite smiles.
And if you’re a fellow mom—here or anywhere—I hope you feel a little less alone.
When people imagine motherhood in Japan, they often think of cute lunchboxes, clean uniforms, and quiet discipline.
But they don’t see what happens before sunrise or after bedtime.
They don’t see the daily logistics that fall squarely on one set of shoulders—mine.
Let me give you a typical day.
I wake up at 5:30 a.m., not because I want to, but because if I don’t, the whole day collapses.
I pack two bentos, sort the recycling, wipe the table, wake the kids, referee sibling fights, chase them into clothes, brush their teeth, feed them breakfast, sign the school communication notebooks, remember it’s gym uniform day, and get them out the door by 7:45.
Then, I breathe—if only for five minutes.
After that, it’s a whirlwind of cleaning, laundry, shopping, planning dinner, answering PTA messages, sorting paperwork from school, checking online assignments (yes, even elementary school kids now have apps), and occasionally trying to do a bit of side work to earn some money.
And then… the clock strikes 2:30 p.m. The kids are home. Round two begins.
There’s no “off” switch.
No shift change.
No partner walking through the door to say, “You rest, I’ve got this.”
Because by the time my husband comes home—if he makes it home before the kids are in bed—he’s exhausted too.
We talk like two colleagues at a train station: short, functional, polite.
“How was the presentation?”
“Did the kids eat?”
“Good night.”
I don’t blame him entirely. But I also can’t pretend it doesn’t hurt.
There are days when I feel like a ghost in my own home.
Needed, but not seen.
Busy, but not acknowledged.
And the isolation… it sneaks up on you.
You go days without talking to another adult.
You post a cute lunchbox photo on Instagram just to feel like someone out there sees you.
You sit in the park surrounded by other moms, but no one says more than a polite “konnichiwa.”
Why?
Because vulnerability isn’t welcome here.
You don’t say you’re tired.
You don’t say you cried in the bathroom.
You don’t say you resent your husband for having lunch breaks and adult conversation.
You keep it inside.
I remember one day, after a particularly hard week, I finally confided in another mom at the school gate.
I said, “Lately, I just feel so alone.”
She looked around to make sure no one was listening and whispered, “Me too.”
Just two words. But they changed everything.
Because that’s the thing about isolation—it tricks you into thinking you’re the only one.
And once you realize you’re not, the weight starts to lift, even just a little.
I’ve since learned that Japan has one of the highest rates of maternal burnout among developed countries.
Not because we’re weak.
Not because we’re overreacting.
But because we are expected to perform a role designed for a different era, in a society that hasn’t updated its expectations.
No support system.
No cultural permission to ask for help.
And no space to fall apart.
And yet—we keep going.
Not because it’s easy, but because we love our children fiercely.
Because somewhere deep inside, we’re hoping for a better model to emerge—not just for us, but for the next generation.
One morning, after a night of broken sleep and a morning meltdown over mismatched socks, I lost it.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t cry.
I just froze.
I stood in the kitchen, coffee untouched, school bags waiting by the door, and I couldn’t move.
For five whole minutes, I stared at the floor as my children argued in the next room and thought,
“This is not how motherhood is supposed to feel.”
That moment scared me—not because it was dramatic, but because it was so quiet.
The exhaustion had numbed me. And I realized: this wasn’t sustainable.
Not for me. Not for them.
That was my turning point—not a big, cinematic one, but a deeply personal, invisible shift.
I started asking different questions.
Not “What do I need to do today?” but “What do I need to feel like myself again?”
At first, I felt guilty even asking.
In Japan, the word “gaman”—to endure, to bear silently—is baked into the mothering experience.
We’re taught that strength is shown by how much you can hold in.
That a good mother sacrifices. That a strong woman doesn’t complain.
But what if strength is asking for something different?
Around that time, I discovered a small online community for Tokyo-based mothers—Japanese and international.
It wasn’t big, just a private group chat where we could talk freely. No judgment. No pressure to be perfect.
For the first time, I read messages from other women saying:
“I miss who I was before kids.”
“My husband doesn’t understand what it’s like to do everything alone.”
“Some days, I just want to run away for a night and sleep.”
And suddenly, I felt less alone.
I began sharing too—small things at first.
How I hide in the bathroom with chocolate just to get five minutes of peace.
How I feel resentful when my husband sleeps in on Sundays.
How my mother tells me I should be “grateful” because at least my husband isn’t abusive.
One woman replied:
“Being ‘not abusive’ is not the same as being supportive. You’re allowed to want more.”
That comment stuck with me.
Not in an entitled way. But in a human way.
Because yes, I want more—not just from my marriage, but from my society, my culture, my role as a mother.
I want partnership.
I want community.
I want a life where raising children isn’t seen as one woman’s endless job, but as something shared, respected, supported.
That tiny online group became my lifeline.
We traded ideas:
How to talk to our husbands about invisible labor without starting fights.
How to involve our kids in chores without guilt.
Even how to carve out “mini-joys” during the day—like lighting a candle with lunch or listening to podcasts while folding laundry.
And slowly, I stopped feeling like a ghost.
I wasn’t “just” a mom anymore.
I was a woman with a voice, a mind, and—yes—needs.
And once I let that truth into my own home, something began to shift.
Tiny things. But they mattered.
My husband started asking how he could help.
Not always perfectly, but with more awareness.
My kids began to understand that “Mama needs rest too.”
And I began to speak. Not scream. Just speak—clearly, unapologetically.
It wasn’t a revolution. But it was a beginning.
If you had told me a year ago that I’d be writing a blog post in English about solo parenting in Japan, I would’ve laughed—too tired, too busy, too invisible.
But here I am, and I’m not laughing. I’m claiming space.
Because here’s what I’ve learned through this journey:
The hardest part of solo parenting isn’t just the work—it’s the invisibility.
It’s the silent assumption that we’re okay because we’re managing.
It’s the expectation that love should cancel out exhaustion.
It’s the cultural conditioning that says asking for help is weakness, or worse, selfishness.
But I’ve stopped apologizing for needing help.
I’ve stopped measuring my worth by how much I can carry without breaking.
And most importantly, I’ve stopped believing that I have to do it all alone.
Solo parenting is still hard. I won’t sugarcoat that.
Some mornings, I still cry in the shower.
Some nights, I fall asleep before I can even finish my thoughts.
But now, I cry and ask for support.
I fall apart and rebuild—with help, with community, with honesty.
I’ve also started doing something radical, at least in Japanese mom culture:
I take time for myself without guilt.
That might mean a walk alone with my favorite playlist.
Or a quiet coffee after drop-off.
Or reading a chapter of a book before the dishes are done.
These are small acts, but they are acts of resistance—against burnout, against erasure, against the idea that I am only valuable when I am productive for others.
I know not everyone has the same support system.
Some are truly doing it alone, without partners, extended family, or community.
And to those women, I say: You are seen. You are not weak. You are not failing.
You are surviving a system that was never built for mothers to thrive.
To readers outside Japan, maybe some of this sounds familiar. Maybe you’ve felt this in your own way—on the other side of the world, in a different language, under different expectations.
That’s the thing about isolation—it feels personal, but it’s often collective.
We just don’t talk about it enough.
But when we do—when we tell the truth, when we drop the mask, when we say “me too”—something powerful happens.
We shift from endurance to empathy.
From survival to solidarity.
From silence to shared strength.
So here’s what I hope you take from this post:
If you are a mother, know this:
Your fatigue is not a failure.
Your voice matters, even if it shakes.
Your story is worth telling, even if it’s messy.
And if you are someone watching from the outside—whether a father, policymaker, neighbor, or employer—know this:
Supporting mothers is not charity.
It is investment.
In families.
In communities.
In the future.
We don’t need grand gestures.
We need small consistencies.
An offer to take the kids for an hour.
A workplace that respects family needs.
A partner who doesn’t “help,” but participates fully.
I still do a lot on my own.
But now, I no longer believe I have to disappear to do it.
I am a mother.
I am a woman.
And I am worthy of rest, joy, and recognition.
That’s the quiet revolution happening in kitchens and playgrounds and WhatsApp groups all across Japan.
It’s slow. It’s soft.
But it’s real.
And maybe, just maybe, it starts with someone like me telling the truth—and someone like you reading it.
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