When I first became a mom in Japan, I expected a lot of things — sleepless nights, laundry mountains, and endless diaper changes. What I didn’t expect was the crushing loneliness that crept in between feedings and playdates. No one warned me that motherhood, especially here, could feel so isolating.
Japan is often praised for its efficiency, safety, and deep-rooted cultural values — and rightly so. But underneath the surface of perfectly wrapped bento boxes and Instagram-worthy park outings, there’s a quiet, invisible pressure many mothers carry: the expectation to hold it all together. Smiling at PTA meetings, remembering every seasonal craft assignment, managing the family schedule like a corporate assistant — all while rarely talking about how we are doing inside.
When I’d mention feeling overwhelmed, I was often met with a polite nod or a slightly awkward silence. Once, after confiding in another mom about my postpartum anxiety, she gently whispered, “We all feel it. We just don’t say it out loud.” That sentence has stayed with me for years. It sums up exactly what I wish we could change — not just the feeling of struggle, but the culture of silence around it.
The thing is, mental health is still a sensitive topic in Japan, especially for mothers. There’s this unspoken rule: you chose this life, so don’t complain. But what if talking about it doesn’t mean complaining? What if it means being human?
In this post, I want to start a conversation I wish someone had started with me years ago. I’m not a psychologist or a professional. I’m just a mom — like so many others — who knows what it feels like to smile on the outside while sinking inside. Whether you’re a fellow mom in Japan, someone raising kids abroad, or just curious about what life looks like behind the sliding doors of Japanese homes, I invite you in. Let’s talk about what we’re not supposed to talk about.
Because it’s time we did.
Once I started paying attention, I realized just how common the quiet struggles were.
In the early years of motherhood, I spent a lot of time in the neighborhood park. On the surface, it seemed like the perfect support system — other moms with kids the same age, casually chatting while our toddlers fought over plastic shovels. But conversations rarely went deeper than weather complaints or lunchbox tips. Even when someone looked visibly tired, no one asked, “Are you okay?” And even if someone did, the answer was almost always, “Daijoubu desu” — I’m fine.
But we weren’t always fine.
I remember one woman, a quiet, graceful mom who always dressed neatly and had the best snack ideas. One afternoon, while our kids were busy climbing the slide, she leaned toward me and said, “I haven’t talked to an adult in two days.” Then she laughed — that nervous, embarrassed kind of laugh that means, Please don’t think I’m weird for saying this.
I didn’t laugh. I told her, “Same.”
And just like that, a crack appeared in the wall of silence. A tiny connection, born not from perfection, but from shared exhaustion.
As Japanese moms, we’re often expected to handle everything without help. Even now, many fathers work long hours, and in-laws (especially mothers-in-law) expect certain traditional roles to be upheld. The modern mother is caught in between — juggling the expectations of the past with the realities of today. And when those two don’t match up, we blame ourselves.
I once confided in a pediatric nurse at my daughter’s check-up that I felt anxious almost every day. Her face softened. She handed me a tiny pamphlet — plain and government-issued — titled “Feeling Blue After Birth?”
Inside were numbers for helplines, written in small, almost apologetic font. It felt like a secret document no one was supposed to really use. But I called one of the numbers anyway.
What I found on the other end wasn’t a perfect solution — but it was someone who listened. For once, I didn’t have to pretend I was holding it all together.
There’s a particular kind of loneliness that comes from knowing you’re surrounded by people — moms at the park, teachers at hoikuen, relatives at family dinners — and still feeling like no one really sees you. In Japan, where emotional restraint is often seen as maturity, showing vulnerability can feel like a betrayal of that cultural norm. But I’ve come to believe that the cost of that silence is too high.
The statistics quietly back this up. While Japan has excellent maternal healthcare in terms of physical outcomes, mental health support lags behind. Postpartum depression is underdiagnosed. Social stigma keeps many women from seeking therapy. Even words like “mental health” (メンタルヘルス) often carry a taboo or are associated with more severe conditions — not the daily stress and anxiety so many moms live with.
And then there’s the guilt.
Why am I struggling? I have healthy kids. A roof over my head. My husband works hard. I should be grateful. I don’t deserve to complain.
Sound familiar? That internal monologue was my constant companion for years. Gratitude and struggle, however, can exist side by side. One doesn’t cancel out the other.
What changed for me wasn’t just time — it was connection. I found a small group of moms, many of whom had lived abroad or had bicultural families, who were more open about their feelings. We started meeting for coffee, and eventually, real conversations began to happen. Not just about parenting hacks or school events — but about anxiety, marriage stress, lost identities, and how hard it is to make space for yourself when you’re always “mama” first.
It didn’t solve everything. But it reminded me: I’m not broken. I’m not weak. I’m just human. And so are you.
The deeper I looked, the more I realized — the silence around maternal mental health in Japan isn’t just about personal hesitation. It’s systemic. It’s cultural. And it’s been passed down for generations like an unspoken rule.
For a long time, Japanese society has idealized a very specific image of motherhood. The ganbaru hahaoya — the mom who pushes through exhaustion with a smile, who sacrifices everything for her children, who doesn’t ask for help because asking would suggest weakness. She doesn’t just endure — she thrives in the background, quietly, perfectly. And honestly? That version of motherhood is exhausting — and impossible.
The expectations aren’t always spoken out loud, but they live everywhere:
In the way other moms glance when you admit your toddler watches too much TV.
In the PTA meetings where everyone’s too polite to complain but no one seems okay.
In the phrases we hear constantly: “Shikata ga nai” (It can’t be helped), “Minna gaman shiteiru” (Everyone endures), or the classic, “Okaasan dakara” (Because you’re a mom).
Those words carry a heavy message: This is the way it is. Don’t fight it. Just adjust yourself.
But what if the system needs adjusting?
Japan has one of the lowest birth rates in the world and one of the highest rates of maternal isolation. There’s even a term: “mama tomo sabetsu” — the subtle social exclusion that can happen among mothers who don’t fit the group’s unspoken standards. Stay-at-home moms feel judged by working moms. Working moms feel judged by stay-at-home moms. Moms who formula-feed feel the shame. Moms who breastfeed in public get the stares. It’s like a constant exam you didn’t study for, and no matter what you choose, you get marked wrong.
So we retreat. Into ourselves. Into curated Instagram posts and polite LINE chats filled with stickers and emojis — anything to avoid saying, “I’m not okay.”
But staying silent doesn’t make the pain go away. It just makes it invisible.
I remember once attending a kosodate salon (parenting support circle) at the local community center. There were about eight of us, sitting in a circle with our babies while a staff member gave a talk about infant massage. It was supposed to be relaxing. But halfway through, one mother suddenly stood up and said, “I’m sorry. I think I need to leave. I haven’t slept in two days. I can’t stop crying.”
No one moved at first. The staff seemed startled. One mom silently handed her a tissue. Another gently took her baby for a moment so she could breathe.
And then, quietly, more voices joined in. “I thought I was the only one.” “I feel like that too.” “I almost didn’t come today because I was afraid I’d cry.”
It was a crack in the armor. A small one. But it changed everything.
I think about that moment often — because it showed me that the silence isn’t because we don’t care. It’s because we’re scared. Scared of being labeled. Scared of being judged. Scared of being different in a culture that prizes harmony.
But what if vulnerability isn’t disharmony?
What if it’s the first note of a new kind of song?
Social change takes time — but I see it beginning. Younger generations are more open about mental health. There are small groups and online communities where moms talk about therapy, medication, burnout, identity loss — things our mothers’ generation rarely discussed. English-speaking moms in Japan, especially those with cross-cultural experiences, are often the ones leading this quiet revolution. Maybe because we’ve seen different models. Or maybe because we’re too tired to pretend.
Still, it’s not easy. Even writing this post makes me nervous. What if someone I know reads this and thinks I’m being dramatic? What if I’m seen as weak or too Western in my thinking? But I remind myself: silence helps no one. Honesty helps someone.
And maybe that someone is reading this now.
These days, I try to talk about my struggles more openly — not just online, but face to face. Not in a dramatic way, but in the kind of simple honesty that says, “This is hard sometimes, and that’s okay.”
And something surprising started to happen: other moms responded with relief, not judgment.
“Thank you for saying that.”
“I thought I was the only one.”
“You too?”
It turns out, the more we share — even just a little — the more we create space for others to share, too. Vulnerability has a ripple effect. And while we may not be able to change a whole culture overnight, we can change the conversation in our own circles, our own kitchens, our own LINE chats.
I used to think being strong meant never crying, never asking for help, never dropping the ball. Now I think real strength is knowing when to rest. When to reach out. When to say, “I can’t do this alone today.”
We owe it to ourselves — and to each other — to rewrite the script we’ve inherited.
Motherhood doesn’t have to mean martyrdom. It can mean collaboration. Creativity. Even joy, if we allow space for all the messy, unfiltered parts of it.
So to the mom reading this who feels invisible — I see you.
To the mom who hasn’t had a real adult conversation in a week — I’ve been you.
To the mom who’s afraid to admit she’s not okay — you’re not weak. You’re just carrying too much, alone.
Let’s change that.
Here are a few small ways that helped me begin:
- Start small: If sharing feels scary, try opening up to one trusted friend. One honest message can open a door.
- Find community: Online forums, bilingual mom groups, postpartum counseling centers — even if they feel awkward at first, they remind you you’re not alone.
- Challenge the script: Just because something is “normal” doesn’t mean it’s healthy. Question the old rules if they don’t serve you.
- Model openness: Our kids are watching. When they see us expressing emotions honestly, they learn it’s okay to do the same.
Japan is changing. Slowly, yes. But I see it — in podcasts by Japanese therapists, in the rise of mom-focused coworking spaces, in blogs like this one. We’re starting to speak, to connect, to shed the idea that silence equals strength.
And as the sliding doors of our homes close behind us at the end of another long day, maybe — just maybe — we can leave a crack open. Enough to let some light in. Enough to let a little truth out.
Because behind every sliding door is a full human being — not just a mother, but a woman with thoughts, needs, and dreams.
And her story deserves to be told.
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