When Everything Looks Fine on the Outside
If you were to pass me on the street in Tokyo—pushing a stroller with one hand and balancing a tote full of groceries in the other—you’d probably think I had it all together. Maybe you’d see a calm, organized mom with a solid routine. Maybe I’d even look “zen,” like all the memes say Japanese moms are supposed to be. And maybe, if I smiled at you, you’d smile back, and then we’d both keep walking, quietly carrying the weight of our own days.
But here’s the truth: beneath the surface, there’s a quiet struggle happening.
It’s not dramatic or loud. It’s not the stuff that makes it into viral parenting reels or shiny Instagram stories. It’s the kind of slow, invisible effort that builds up over time—like waking up early just to get ten minutes of peace before the kids explode into the day. Or choosing to stay quiet during a PTA meeting because you’re not confident in your Japanese, even though you have something to say. Or nodding politely at well-meaning strangers offering parenting advice in the supermarket while your toddler throws soba noodles on the floor.
Living in Tokyo as a mom comes with unique challenges. The convenience is real—safe public transport, clean parks, everything on time. But so is the isolation. The unspoken rules. The pressure to be quietly perfect. In Japan, motherhood is often treated like a role you’re expected to master without instruction—and without complaint.
I didn’t expect this kind of loneliness when I became a mom here. In the beginning, I thought I just needed to “adjust.” But years in, I realized I wasn’t just struggling to adapt to a new routine—I was trying to find a way to be fully myself again in a role that often feels invisible.
This blog post isn’t about complaining. It’s about pulling back the curtain a little. About sharing what the real days look like—not just the moments when everything goes right, but also the ones where I eat cold rice over the sink at 3 PM and call it lunch.
Because I know I’m not alone. If you’re a mom living abroad—or even just a mom feeling quietly overwhelmed—you might recognize these moments, too.
So let me start from the beginning: the small, ordinary-looking days that slowly taught me that quiet doesn’t mean weak, and invisible doesn’t mean unimportant.
Where the Cracks Begin to Show
It didn’t happen all at once. The loneliness didn’t knock loudly or crash in like a storm. It seeped in slowly—quietly—between the early mornings and the late-night laundry folds. Between the bento-packing at 6 a.m. and the polite nods exchanged at the hoikuen (nursery) gate. Somewhere in the midst of these everyday tasks, I started to feel like I was vanishing.
I wasn’t unhappy, exactly. I was just… muted.
The turning point came when my son had his first sports day at daycare. All the moms arrived in matching sun hats and perfectly prepped picnic baskets. I showed up with my phone camera and store-bought onigiri. No one said anything, but I felt it. The silent comparisons. The unspoken standard. Even my cheerful “Good morning!” felt slightly too loud.
That day, I went home and cried. Not because I did anything wrong, but because I realized I’d been trying to blend in so hard that I’d forgotten to be in my own skin. I had been trying to become the kind of Tokyo mom I thought I was supposed to be—neat, calm, efficient, endlessly self-sacrificing—and I was losing sight of the kind of mother I actually am.
Motherhood in Japan is wrapped in layers of expectations—many of which go unspoken but are deeply felt. There’s a term here: ganbaru. It means to do your best, to persevere, to try hard. It’s beautiful, in its own way. But when you’re a foreign mom trying to live up to a quiet, perfectionist version of motherhood, ganbaru can feel like a silent command rather than encouragement.
I began to realize how much of my mental energy was spent trying to decode the rules:
- How much to bow to the teacher?
- Is this snack okay for park playdates?
- Am I being too pushy? Or not engaged enough?
Even simple things—like writing my child’s name in katakana or correcting his Japanese pronunciation—felt loaded. Would other moms think I was doing too little to support his identity here? Or too much to force my own?
Every social interaction became a balancing act. And slowly, that balancing act turned into emotional exhaustion.
Still, in that exhaustion, I began to notice something else: I wasn’t alone. Quiet as it was, the struggle was everywhere. I saw it in the mom who looked down at her phone during PTA introductions, avoiding eye contact. I saw it in the foreign mom who left the park early after her child had a meltdown. I saw it in myself, trying to smile through yet another awkward school form I didn’t fully understand.
And little by little, I realized that while the pressure to conform was strong, the desire to connect was stronger.
🔍 Cultural Insight:
In Japan, social harmony (wa) is prioritized. This often means avoiding confrontation, but it can also lead to emotional suppression—especially among mothers, who are expected to carry the invisible load without complaint. This quiet pressure is beautifully explored in academic essays like Allison’s “Nightwork: Sexuality, Pleasure, and Corporate Masculinity in a Tokyo Hostess Club” (which, while not about moms, explains the larger context of gendered labor in Japan), and more directly in articles like “The Burden of the Japanese Mother” from Nippon.com.
Cracks Let the Light In
The breakthrough didn’t come in a dramatic, movie-worthy moment. There was no tearful monologue in front of the mirror or profound revelation over tea. It came on an ordinary Tuesday morning—over spilled juice, mismatched socks, and the tenth reminder to my son to brush his teeth.
We were running late (again). I was sweating through my Uniqlo T-shirt, trying to zip up his tiny backpack with one hand while holding a half-eaten piece of toast in the other. And then, out of nowhere, he looked up and said in a perfect mix of English and Japanese:
“Mommy, you’re fast like a shinkansen.”
I laughed—really laughed—for the first time in weeks. Not because the comparison was so clever (though it was), but because in that moment, I saw what he saw: a mom who was doing her best. A mom who wasn’t failing, just moving. Constantly. Consistently. Lovingly.
That’s when I began to shift how I saw myself.
Instead of measuring my worth against Japanese moms who seemed effortlessly put together, I started noticing the ways I was already thriving in my own way. I wasn’t baking elaborate panda-shaped bentos, but I was teaching my son two languages. I wasn’t attending every PTA meeting, but I was building a home filled with warmth and laughter. I wasn’t perfect—but I was present.
And slowly, the small victories began to matter more than the silent failures.
Like the time I finally spoke up in Japanese during a hoikuen meeting—not fluently, but clearly enough to be understood.
Or the morning I ran into another foreign mom at the playground and we exchanged a single glance that said, “You too?”
Or when I stopped apologizing for not being Japanese enough and started owning the unique strengths I bring into this space.
Even things that once felt like barriers began to feel like bridges.
I started saying “no” more. No, I won’t join that PTA subcommittee if it compromises my mental health. No, I won’t pretend I understand that form—can someone explain it, please? No, I won’t judge myself for serving store-bought karaage twice this week.
And I started saying “yes” to myself:
Yes, I’ll write during nap time.
Yes, I’ll meet a friend for coffee even if the house is messy.
Yes, I’ll forgive myself for the moments I’m not my best.
Motherhood in Tokyo hasn’t gotten easier. But it’s gotten clearer. I’ve stopped trying to be invisible and started being real. I’ve found power in being a little louder, a little messier, a little more me.
And perhaps the biggest shift? I stopped seeing those “quiet struggles” as proof of failure. Now I see them as signs of growth—of building a life in a place that challenges me deeply, but also makes me stronger in quiet, steady ways.
Redefining What “Winning” Looks Like
If you had asked me a few years ago what “success” in motherhood looked like, I probably would have rattled off a checklist: a balanced meal plan, organized drawers of baby clothes, a child who says “please” and “thank you” in two languages, and a spotless house you could photograph for a magazine.
But living in Tokyo—being a mom here, not just visiting or passing through—taught me that motherhood can’t be measured in neat bullet points or Pinterest-worthy snapshots. Success, I’ve learned, often looks like survival. And then, eventually, something softer: peace.
Now, when I think of what it means to “win” as a mother, I think of mornings that start with laughter instead of stress. I think of being okay with leftovers three days in a row. I think of connecting with another mom on a park bench and realizing that even if our Japanese isn’t perfect, our stories still are.
Tokyo didn’t break me. But it did strip away all the noise—all the “shoulds” and “musts” and “not enoughs”—until I was left with something honest: a clearer sense of who I am as a mother, and who I want to be.
And honestly? I kind of like her.
She’s messy. She forgets permission slips. Her Japanese has a strong accent.
But she’s also resilient. Open-hearted. Curious.
And, most importantly, she keeps showing up.
Because every time I choose to be present over perfect, I win.
Every time I say, “I don’t know, but I’m trying,” I win.
Every time I give myself grace in a world that doesn’t always offer it, I win.
Living in Japan as a foreign mom means navigating systems that weren’t designed with you in mind. It means translating not just language, but emotion, expectations, identity. And yet, in that process, you become something quietly extraordinary.
You become a bridge. A learner. A guide.
You become the kind of mom who knows how to carry her child and her own doubt, side by side—and keep walking anyway.
So if you’re reading this and feeling tired, unseen, or like you’re always a few steps behind—let me say this plainly:
You’re not failing. You’re building something.
Quietly. Steadily. In a language you’re still learning.
And every small victory—every smile, every deep breath, every night you don’t give up—is a piece of the life you’re crafting.
And that life? It matters. So much more than you know.
💌 Final Thoughts:
Writing this post has been part of my own small victory: carving out space in the chaos to name what’s real. Thank you for being here and sharing that space with me. If you’re navigating mom life in Tokyo (or anywhere unfamiliar), I’d love to hear your story.
Let’s remind each other that we don’t have to be perfect to be powerful.
We just have to keep going—one beautifully imperfect day at a time.
コメント