“Between Tatami and Wi-Fi—How This Blog Was Born”
You might be surprised to hear this, but I didn’t grow up dreaming of writing a blog in English for strangers across the ocean. In fact, when I first became a housewife in Tokyo, my world got smaller, not bigger. Between hanging the laundry just right on our narrow balcony, rushing to catch the half-price salmon sashimi at the supermarket, and folding school newsletters into perfect quarters for my kid’s backpack, I felt like my life was shrinking into compartments. Bento-sized. Quiet. Predictable.
And yet, somewhere between the tatami mats and Wi-Fi router, something unexpected started to grow.
At first, it was just a craving: not for sweets or sleep (though yes, those too), but for connection. Real connection—beyond school gates and grocery lines. I didn’t want to gossip about TV dramas. I wanted to talk about what it feels like to raise a child in a society where you’re expected to do it all silently. I wanted to share how wearing a kimono at a formal event can be both beautiful and suffocating—literally and emotionally. I wanted to say, “Hey, I’m here too. Are you out there?”
I tried journaling in Japanese, but the words felt too formal, too filtered. Like I had to be polite even on paper. Then one day, I switched to English—just for fun—and something clicked. The sentences flowed freer. My thoughts felt lighter. Maybe it’s because English isn’t my native language, so I don’t feel bound by the same rules. Or maybe it’s because, in writing to a global audience, I gave myself permission to be me—no mask, no makeup, no honorifics.
And so, this blog was born. Not out of ambition, but out of necessity. A small, stubborn voice inside me wanted to speak. And now, I want to invite you in—to the mess, the magic, the contradictions of this Tokyo life. To what it means to be a woman balancing tradition and technology, motherhood and me-time, rice cookers and resistance.
You might find bits of your own story here, even if you’re not in Japan. That’s the hope.
Welcome to my diary.
“What’s a Nice Housewife Like You Doing on the Internet?”
Once I started writing, I realized something: people were actually reading. Not just my friends from high school who now live in California, but strangers from Sweden, Canada, Brazil. Some were fellow moms, others were students curious about Japan. A few were Japanese women who had moved abroad and missed the quiet chaos of Tokyo’s morning train rides or the smell of konbini coffee at 7am.
Their messages surprised me:
“Your post about folding PTA flyers made me laugh and cry. I thought I was the only one who felt invisible.”
“Do you really cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner every single day? Is that normal?”
“Can you talk more about how you balance Japanese expectations and your own dreams?”
Wait—people wanted more?
I’d never thought of myself as someone worth following. I don’t have perfect skin. I don’t decorate my kids’ bento with anime faces made of seaweed and egg. I’m not even particularly organized. What I am, though, is observant. I notice the tiny cracks in a smile at a school event. I remember how another mom once said, “My husband is supportive” while looking down at her shoes. I read between the lines of LINE messages.
And slowly, this blog became something more than a diary. It became a mirror—and sometimes, a magnifying glass. It helped me see my own life more clearly.
But it hasn’t always been smooth.
Writing about my life in Japan, as a Japanese woman, for a global audience comes with its own set of awkward questions—both from others and from within myself.
“Aren’t you airing our dirty laundry?”
Some readers (mostly anonymous) have commented, “You shouldn’t criticize your own culture. If you don’t like it, leave.” Or “Why are you pandering to foreigners?” At first, those words stung. I’d lie awake wondering, Am I betraying something sacred?
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized: I’m not criticizing Japan. I’m loving it enough to look at it honestly. Love that demands silence isn’t love—it’s fear. And I’m done being afraid to say, “This part of our society is hard.” I believe we can hold chopsticks in one hand and a pen in the other. We can bow politely and still speak boldly.
“Isn’t it dangerous to be vulnerable online?”
It is. I’ve felt exposed. Like when I wrote about my struggles with postnatal depression and got emails saying “you should just be grateful.” Or when I mentioned how lonely marriage can feel after 15 years and someone replied, “Well, that’s what you signed up for.”
But vulnerability is also a bridge.
I’ve gotten messages from women in Morocco, London, and Seoul—mothers, wives, daughters—who say, “Thank you for saying what I couldn’t say aloud.” One woman in Germany said my blog inspired her to finally seek therapy. Another in Canada told me she printed out one of my entries and left it on her partner’s pillow. Those moments make the fear worth it.
And through all of this, my own voice has changed.
When I started, I was just trying not to disappear. Now, I’m trying to be seen—on my own terms.
Writing in English has become a kind of armor and a kind of dance. I get to rewrite the scripts I was handed as a girl:
- “Good mothers don’t complain.”
- “Wives don’t speak about husbands publicly.”
- “If you’re lucky enough to be at home, don’t talk about how hard it is.”
I’m rewriting them, one blog post at a time.
So when someone asks, “What’s a nice housewife like you doing on the Internet?”—I smile. I tell them:
I’m not just doing the laundry. I’m airing out the truth.
“Lost in Translation (Even in My Own Language)”
One afternoon, as I was editing a blog post about gender expectations in Japanese parenting, my husband peeked over my shoulder.
“You’re writing about us again?”
He said it with a smile, but the words felt sharp. Like a needle hidden in soft cotton.
I looked at the screen. I had written about how we split chores—how I do 90%, and he “helps” with 10% like it’s charity. I had written about how silence is often mistaken for peace in Japanese marriages. And yeah, some of that was us. But it was also so much bigger than just us.
Still, the line between personal and public was getting blurry.
Suddenly, blogging didn’t feel like liberation. It felt like standing naked in the middle of a shopping street.
And what’s worse: my words, even in English, were starting to echo in Japanese. In my mind. In my home. In my marriage. I started self-editing in real life.
At dinner, I’d hesitate to complain about how exhausted I was from PTA duties, because I could hear the blog version of me whispering, Don’t repeat yourself. You already wrote about this in April.
When talking to other moms at school, I’d second-guess my honesty—If I’m too open here, will it sound performative online?
Even my son once asked, “Mom, are you going to write about this on your blog?” when I dropped an entire tray of karaage on the floor.
I laughed at the time. But it stayed with me.
Had I become a brand?
Had my keyboard swallowed my voice?
I Thought English Gave Me Freedom.
But now I was caught in two languages—and two selves.
In English, I’m assertive. Playful. Curious.
In Japanese, I’m careful. Considerate. Soft-spoken.
Both are me, but they rarely coexist.
I once wrote a post titled, “The Invisible Career of Being a Japanese Housewife.” It got shared widely overseas. Readers called it “fascinating” and “brave.” But when I translated it into Japanese for a friend, I couldn’t finish. The words felt… accusatory. Heavy. Like I was betraying the very women I was trying to speak for.
There’s a reason why so many Japanese essays use passive voice. Why we say, “I might have been tired,” instead of, “I was burned out.”
Why we write about sadness by describing the weather.
Our language itself teaches us to be gentle with the truth.
But English? English lets me be raw. It gives me permission to bleed on the page and call it honesty.
Still, this power comes with weight.
The Moment It All Collided
It was a cold February morning. I was scrolling through comments on a piece I’d written about motherhood and loneliness in Japan.
One reader said:
“I never imagined someone in Tokyo felt this way. I always thought Japanese moms were calm and strong.”
Another said:
“Reading this makes me think twice about idolizing Japanese family life. Thank you.”
I wanted to feel proud. But instead, I felt hollow. Like I had pulled back the curtain on something sacred—and everyone was clapping while I stood shivering in the spotlight.
I closed my laptop. Went to make tea.
And then, in the stillness of the kitchen, something shifted.
What if this discomfort wasn’t a sign I was doing something wrong—
…but a sign I was finally doing something true?
What if writing wasn’t just about being understood, but about understanding myself?
That twist, right there—that moment between doubt and decision—was when this blog stopped being just a hobby. It became a practice. A lifeline. A bridge between the girl I was raised to be and the woman I am trying to become.
Even now, I sometimes flinch when I hit “publish.” I still wonder if my posts are too much. Too personal. Too messy.
But I’ve learned that truth is often born in the mess. And if I’m going to raise a child in this culture, I want him to see that mess is not something to hide—it’s something to meet.
“Home Is Where the Story Starts”
If you had told me ten years ago that I’d be writing in English, from my tiny Tokyo kitchen table, to people I’ve never met in countries I’ve never been, I probably would’ve laughed. Or panicked. Probably both.
Because back then, I didn’t have a voice. Not one I could hear, anyway.
I had a routine.
I had responsibilities.
I had all the markers of “a good life”: a family, a safe home, a rice cooker that never broke down.
But I didn’t have language for what was happening inside me. Not in Japanese. Not even in my own thoughts.
This blog—this strange, fragile thing that started as late-night typing sessions between laundry loads—gave me that language. Not just for my pain, but for my possibility.
I used to think I had to choose:
Be a good Japanese wife or be a woman with opinions.
Be respectful of culture or challenge it.
Be invisible or be seen too much.
But the truth is, I can be both.
I can bow and still speak.
I can wear a kimono and still write boldly.
I can pack a bento and still break stereotypes.
This blog taught me that.
My Life Isn’t “Special.” That’s Exactly Why It Matters.
People sometimes say, “Your stories are so relatable.” That still surprises me. Because I’m not famous. I’m not writing from a mountaintop or a war zone. I’m writing from the living room, next to a basket of unfolded socks, with a toddler’s sticker stuck to the back of my laptop.
But maybe that’s the point.
When we share the small, quiet, ordinary details—the nagging loneliness, the joy of a perfect cup of miso soup, the heartbreak of feeling misunderstood—we give others permission to say, me too.
And that “me too” is a lifeline.
For the woman in Sapporo wondering if it’s okay to want more.
For the student in Manila dreaming of life in Japan beyond the anime fantasy.
For the mother in Dublin, drowning in expectations she can’t quite name.
When I write, I picture you.
Not a faceless crowd, but someone—just one person—reading quietly while the kettle boils, or scrolling through my words after a long day, looking for something real.
Maybe that’s why I keep going.
What’s Next? Honestly, I Don’t Know.
I don’t have a five-year plan for this blog. I don’t know if it will become a book, or a podcast, or just a folder of thoughts I leave behind someday for my son to find.
But I do know this: I want to keep showing up.
I want to keep peeling back the layers.
I want to keep asking hard questions.
I want to keep writing through the fear—and into the freedom.
Because this isn’t just about me. It’s about us.
All of us trying to live honestly in a world that often prefers us quiet.
All of us balancing culture, identity, family, and self.
All of us reaching across borders, languages, and screens—hoping to be seen.
So whether you’re here for the bento stories, the deep thoughts, or just because you stumbled in by accident—thank you. Truly.
You’re part of this, too.
This is my keyboard.
This is my kimono.
This is my story.
And it’s only just beginning.
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