“The Tatami Floor”
When I was little, the tatami mats in my grandmother’s house smelled like summer. Green, earthy, and a little dry. I remember sitting there while she folded laundry, while my uncles argued about politics on TV, and while my mother packed bentos in the early hours before school. That was the stage on which everyday life played out: tatami floors, kettle whistles, sliding paper doors, and the occasional “shh!” when things got too noisy.
Fast forward a couple of decades, and now I’m the one folding laundry—sometimes while watching Netflix, sometimes while doom-scrolling Twitter, and often while answering my son’s math questions from across the room. I still live in Japan, still sleep on a futon most nights, still make bentos (though with less love than guilt some mornings). But the world around me has changed in ways that would have made my grandmother blink.
This blog post isn’t a cultural deep dive or a dramatic retelling of identity crisis. It’s more like a conversation over coffee, if coffee were made on a kitchen counter cluttered with half-finished shopping lists and forgotten Lego pieces. It’s about the strange, sometimes funny, sometimes exhausting space I live in—as a Japanese housewife raised in an analog world and now juggling digital notifications, shifting gender norms, and the relentless pace of modern life.
Because being a housewife in Japan isn’t what it used to be. And maybe that’s a good thing… or at least, a complicated one.
“Housewife” as a Word and a World
Let me pause here and say something about the word “housewife.” In Japanese, it’s 専業主婦 (sengyō shufu)—a full-time homemaker. There’s also 兼業主婦 (kengyō shufu) for those who work part-time or freelance, and of course ワーママ (wā-mama), a modern slang term for working mothers. But the fact that we even need all these labels says something: the job of being a wife and mother is no longer one-size-fits-all.
And yet, somehow, the old expectations still linger. Like the smell of tatami on a humid day, the idea that a “good wife” cooks daily miso soup, keeps the floors spotless, remembers all the PTA meetings, and never—ever—raises her voice is still part of our social script. Even as we tweet feminist threads and scroll through Pinterest boards on minimalism.
For me, it’s not about rejecting the housewife role. It’s about reinterpreting it. Updating it. Living it on my terms. Some days, that looks like vacuuming while blasting Beyoncé. Other days, it means saying, “nope” to ironing and taking a nap instead.
Why I Started This Blog
One night, while lying awake thinking about the groceries I forgot to buy, I opened Twitter and saw a post from an American mom saying, “No one told me motherhood would be this lonely.” And in that moment, I thought: me too.
I live in one of the most densely populated cities in the world, surrounded by people, trains, noise, convenience stores, community rules… and yet, I often feel like I’m the only one asking certain questions.
Why do I still feel guilty about not making dinner from scratch?
Why is it so hard to talk openly about mental health with other moms at the park?
Why does Instagram make me feel like a failure, even though I know those photos are curated?
I wanted to find out if other women felt this way, too. Not just in Japan, but across borders. Maybe my story could make someone feel less alone—whether they’re in Tokyo, Toronto, or Tuscany.
“Living the Divide”
I used to think I was living in two different worlds.
One was soft and silent, lined with tatami and expectations. The other was loud and blinking, always online, constantly shifting. The first was filled with rules passed down from mothers and grandmothers—how to properly arrange dishes, how to greet the neighbor’s cat, how to suppress your sigh when you’re tired. The second was where I caught glimpses of women just like me, but also completely different—laughing about chaos, trading parenting tips, and speaking truths I was too scared to say aloud.
I live in both these worlds now. I wake up at 6 a.m., pack lunchboxes while half-awake, then open Twitter before I’ve brushed my hair. I fold laundry with a podcast on. I buy soy sauce online. I order frozen gyoza from an app while reading threads about gender politics in Japan. It’s absurd. It’s amazing. It’s exhausting.
And through all this, I’ve realized something:
Being a modern Japanese housewife isn’t just about living between old and new. It’s about constantly translating one into the other.
The Invisible Load (目に見えない重さ)
Here’s something I think a lot of people outside Japan don’t realize:
The “good wife” myth here is alive and well, especially in middle-class suburban households. Even when we want to modernize, we’re often surrounded by silent rules. Like unspoken dress codes at school pick-up. Or “casual” mom groups that expect you to host a tea party like it’s 1955. Or the way people glance at your child’s slightly messy hair and silently wonder if you’re “that kind of mom.”
There’s also this cultural expectation of humility.
You’re supposed to act like your house is always messy, even if you just spent four hours scrubbing.
You’re supposed to say, “I’m not very good at cooking,” even when you can make three types of tamagoyaki blindfolded.
Add to that the rise of “Insta-mama” culture—perfect bento lunches, spotless homes, matching outfits, Montessori crafts—and you get a strange double pressure. On one hand, you’re expected to stay humble. On the other, you’re expected to perform effortless perfection online. (And yes, I have tried to make a panda-shaped onigiri. No, it didn’t end well.)
Tech Isn’t Saving Us—It’s Just Changing the Game
Technology was supposed to make our lives easier. In some ways, it has. I can order diapers at midnight and have them delivered by 8 a.m. I can search YouTube for a dinner recipe while standing in the grocery aisle. I can vent anonymously on a mom’s forum without anyone knowing I burned dinner again.
But here’s the thing: tech didn’t erase our tasks. It just made us more available to them.
I don’t leave the house without my phone. Which means I don’t leave the house without my schedule, my kid’s school notifications, the PTA group chat, the grocery list, the weather alert, and a half-written blog post sitting in my Notes app.
In a way, our homes have become more digital than ever—but our role as homemakers hasn’t caught up. We’re still expected to master analog tasks (homemade pickles, anyone?) while managing digital chaos. It’s like we’re multitasking across centuries.
My Inner Split Screen
I often think of my mind as a split-screen window.
On one side: “Did I remember to defrost the chicken?”
On the other: “What kind of example am I setting for my daughter?”
Scroll down: “Am I doing enough?”
Scroll up: “Am I doing too much?”
I’m not alone in this. Every Japanese mom I talk to has her version of this split screen.
One friend runs a successful online business while managing all household chores because her husband still believes in “traditional roles.”
Another quit her office job to care for her kids, only to be told by her in-laws that she “has too much free time.”
A third got divorced and now juggles solo parenting while trying to re-enter a workforce that doesn’t know what to do with a 40-year-old woman who’s been “just a housewife.”
The contradictions are everywhere.
We’re encouraged to be independent—but judged for stepping outside the home.
We’re told to be full-time mothers—but penalized when we try to rejoin society later.
We’re supposed to stay “feminine” and gentle—but also handle financial planning, education, and tech troubleshooting without complaint.
But Still, We Laugh
And yet, we find ways to survive. Sometimes by laughing.
Sometimes by texting each other screenshots of ridiculous PTA emails.
Sometimes by sharing secret coping mechanisms (like hiding in the bathroom for 10 minutes just to scroll TikTok).
Sometimes by calling out BS—even quietly.
One of my proudest moments last year wasn’t anything dramatic. It was during a neighborhood meeting where someone suggested the moms should be “in charge of snacks and cleanup” for the local festival. I casually raised my hand and said, “Why not rotate? Some dads are great at snacks too.”
Silence. A few confused glances. Then someone chuckled and said, “Yeah, that could work.”
It was small. But it felt like planting a seed.
“When the Cracks Begin to Show”
It didn’t happen all at once.
There was no dramatic moment where I shouted “I’ve had enough!” and walked out the door with a suitcase and a feminist manifesto. No big argument, no collapsed marriage, no dramatic job loss. Just the slow, steady drip of exhaustion.
The kind of tired that seeps into your bones. The kind that makes your hands hesitate mid-chop while cutting vegetables, makes your voice just a little too sharp when your child asks for help with homework, makes your smile feel like a costume you put on every morning—after you pack the bento, before you scroll your notifications.
People talk about burnout like it’s a fire. But for me, it was more like fog. A thick, quiet fog that made everything feel heavy and pointless.
The Pressure Behind the Screen
Social media made it worse.
You know how some people say Instagram is toxic because it’s fake? I don’t even follow influencers. I follow real moms. That’s the problem. They’re real—and they’re still perfect.
Homemade snacks with handwritten labels. Minimalist living rooms with exactly one wooden toy on the floor. A toddler in a linen dress and straw hat, holding a flower. Meanwhile, I’m bribing my kid with instant curry and asking him to stop licking the wall.
I knew it was just a curated moment.
I knew they had mess behind the camera, too.
But that didn’t stop the voice in my head:
“You should be more grateful.”
“Other moms are doing it, why can’t you?”
“You have a nice home, a healthy family—what’s wrong with you?”
What No One Talks About
The real crisis didn’t come from outside. It came from within.
One day, I stood in the kitchen and realized I couldn’t feel anything. Not joy, not anger, not even stress. Just… blank. Like someone had muted my entire inner world. I sat down on the floor, apron still on, and cried—not because something happened, but because nothing did. Because I had become a ghost in my own life.
That night, after everyone went to bed, I opened my laptop. Not for social media. Not for online shopping. Just to write. No audience. No hashtags. Just… me. The uncensored version.
I wrote about how tired I was of smiling. How I hated the sound of the washing machine sometimes. How I missed the version of me that had opinions, ambition, ideas. I wrote until the sun came up.
And then I slept—really slept—for the first time in weeks.
The Invisible Wall Between Us
I started looking around more closely. Talking less, listening more. I noticed other moms avoiding eye contact at school events. I noticed the way we all said “大変だけど楽しいです” (“It’s hard, but fun!”) like it was a required script.
And I wondered:
What would happen if we stopped pretending?
Not in a dramatic, rebellious way—but in small, human moments.
What if we admitted we’re not okay sometimes?
What if we stopped performing motherhood and started living it?
I started testing it. Carefully.
When someone asked, “How are you?” I’d say, “Honestly? Kind of struggling.”
Some looked uncomfortable. Others nodded quietly, and whispered, “Me too.”
That whisper changed everything.
The Digital Lifeline
Ironically, it was Twitter—the same place that often drained me—that also began to heal me.
I found a small circle of Japanese and international women who talked openly about domestic burnout, emotional labor, and what it means to carry the “mental load” of family life. They weren’t angry all the time. They weren’t perfect. They just… told the truth.
One woman tweeted about crying while ironing her kid’s gym clothes at midnight. Another posted a photo of her chaotic sink with the caption, “Today, I give up.” It was raw. It was real. It was relief.
And slowly, I joined in.
Redefining My Job Description
I started thinking about what being a “housewife” actually means. Is it just cooking, cleaning, and child-rearing? Or could it be broader? Could it include mental health, identity, boundaries, creativity?
If I treat this role like a job, then I should be allowed to ask:
Where’s the training?
Where’s the performance review?
Where’s the promotion or career growth?
That made me laugh—but it also made me think: maybe the problem isn’t me.
Maybe I wasn’t “failing” at being a housewife.
Maybe the job itself—how society defines it—is due for a serious update.
And maybe, just maybe, I have the power to rewrite it.
The Power of Small Shifts
I didn’t change everything overnight. I still fold laundry. Still cook (most days). Still wake up too early and stay up too late.
But I started saying no more often.
I started asking for help, even when it felt awkward.
I started blocking accounts that made me feel like garbage.
And I started doing small things that were just for me: journaling, stretching, learning about design tools, sometimes just sitting with tea and silence.
It wasn’t rebellion. It was survival.
It wasn’t selfish. It was self-respect.
“Rewriting the Script”
It didn’t happen in a big, cinematic moment.
There was no sunrise epiphany, no dramatic montage of self-care routines and empowerment playlists. The shift happened slowly, in the in-between spaces of my day: the quiet moment after the dishes were done, the short walk to the conbini when I left my phone at home on purpose, the small exhale after replying “no, thank you” to yet another unnecessary PTA task.
But those moments added up.
And before I even realized it, I was living differently—not louder, not flashier, just truer.
Home as a Space, Not a Stage
For years, I treated our home like a stage. Not because I wanted to impress anyone, but because I thought I had to. Everything had to look a certain way—tidy, warm, functional, just chaotic enough to seem “authentic,” but never messy enough to raise concern.
Now, I think of home differently.
Home is not something I curate for others.
It’s not a set I perform on.
It’s a space I protect—emotionally, mentally, physically.
Some days, that means lighting a candle at 10 a.m. just because.
Other days, it means letting the laundry wait so I can journal for 15 minutes.
And sometimes, it means closing all the tabs—real and metaphorical—and just sitting on the tatami with nothing but silence and breath.
I’m still here. Still in Japan. Still a mother, wife, homemaker.
But the way I show up in those roles has changed. And that has made all the difference.
What I’ve Learned (So Far)
Here’s what I’ve come to believe—not as advice, but as a reminder I write mostly for myself:
- You can be grateful and still feel tired. Gratitude doesn’t cancel out exhaustion. It just helps you see beauty while carrying the weight.
- Being a housewife is real work. Emotional labor, mental load, social navigation—these don’t show up on pay slips, but they’re heavy.
- You don’t have to do it alone. Whether it’s your partner, a friend, a stranger online, or just your future self—you deserve support.
- You are allowed to change. Identities are not tattoos. You can rewrite who you are without apologizing for who you were.
- Small joys matter. A quiet coffee. A message from a friend. A moment of honesty. These are the bricks of a new kind of strength.
Bridging the Divide
“Between Tatami and Twitter.” That phrase began as a title, but somewhere along the way, it became a metaphor for how I live.
Tatami is tradition, rhythm, the grounding of generations.
Twitter is movement, disruption, connection beyond borders.
I need both.
I need the slowness of hanging laundry on a sunny afternoon, the smell of rice cooking, the comfort of routines that anchor me.
But I also need the buzz of digital friendships, the fire of global conversations, the freedom to say: “I’m not okay today”—and be met with understanding.
This duality no longer feels like a conflict. It feels like a bridge I’ve learned to walk, sometimes wobbly, always real.
To the One Reading This
Maybe you’re a housewife in Japan, or maybe you’re not. Maybe you live in New York, Nairobi, or Nagoya. Maybe your home has tatami mats, or tile floors, or hardwood planks worn by time. It doesn’t matter.
What I want you to know is this:
Your story counts.
Even if no one claps. Even if no one sees the work you do. Even if your hands smell like onions and your brain feels fried and your kid is yelling from the other room.
You’re doing it.
You’re living, breathing, trying.
You’re enough.
And if you ever feel like you’re stuck in the space between who you were taught to be and who you’re becoming—welcome. There’s room for you here.
You’re not alone.
The Tatami and the Tweet
This blog began as a personal experiment—just me, trying to make sense of my own thoughts in the quiet corners of motherhood. But what I’ve found is that my small, domestic world is not so small after all. It touches politics, identity, technology, global movements, and ancient expectations.
Every bentō I make is also a reflection of cultural memory.
Every parenting decision I second-guess is tied to decades of silence around mental health.
Every post I write is part of a wider conversation—one that stretches beyond tatami and Twitter.
So I’ll keep writing.
And I hope you’ll keep reading.
Not because I have all the answers—but because I’m still searching, too.
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