“Waking Up in Japan: Where the Dream Begins with the Dishwasher”
Every morning in Tokyo begins with a familiar sound—the low hum of the dishwasher from last night, and the high-pitched “ピピピ” from my rice cooker, reminding me that the first of many bentos must soon be packed. Before I’ve even sipped my lukewarm coffee, I’m already thinking about soy sauce portions, PTA meetings, and whether I remembered to pay the electricity bill. Again.
This blog, “Bento, Bills & Big Dreams,” isn’t about perfection. It’s about real life—messy, noisy, and often absurdly beautiful. I’m not here to give you perfect homemaking hacks or pretend I’ve mastered this juggling act. I’m here because I need a place to breathe, reflect, and maybe make you laugh a little. Or cry. Or both, depending on the day.
I’m a housewife in Tokyo, yes—but that title doesn’t quite capture it. I’m also the family CFO, the chef, the event planner, the family IT support, the emotional barometer of our tiny household, and occasionally, a woman with her own ambitions that go far beyond the bento box.
This is not the “ideal Japanese mom” story. It’s the real one.
Modern Tokyo, Traditional Expectations
When people think of Japan, they picture clean trains, sakura in bloom, and high-tech toilets. But behind the Instagram filters is a quiet army of women—mothers, wives, daughters—running households with the quiet precision of CEOs, minus the paycheck or recognition. We’re expected to do it all, and look good doing it. Smile, be polite, don’t forget the wet towels for sports day.
But here’s the thing: We’re not machines. We’re humans, and we’re dreaming too.
Some days, my dream is just to have lunch alone. Other days, it’s to start my own small business. Or write a book. Or just be heard.
This blog is my way of holding space for those dreams. And maybe, for yours too.
Why Write Now?
Like many, I spent years assuming that if I just worked harder, things would balance out. That I’d find peace between the laundry cycles, passion between the bills, purpose in the PTA emails. But lately, I’ve realized—balance isn’t something you stumble upon. It’s something you create. Intentionally. Honestly. And with a lot of missteps along the way.
So I’m writing this now because I believe we need more honest voices. Not just in Japan, but everywhere. Women who can say:
“Yes, I love my family—but I’m tired.”
“Yes, I chose this life—but I’m still figuring it out.”
“Yes, I’m grateful—but I’m also allowed to want more.”
What You’ll Find Here
This isn’t just a diary. It’s a series of snapshots—daily life in Tokyo from the inside out. From prepping bentos at 6am to navigating cultural contradictions, from the rising cost of groceries to how we mothers cope when the dreams we once had feel buried under a pile of socks and receipts.
I’ll write about:
- Marriage after a decade of “What’s for dinner?”
- Kids and education pressure in Japan’s hyper-competitive school system
- Money—how we survive, save, and sometimes splurge
- What self-care actually looks like when you live in a 2LDK with zero alone time
- And the ever-burning question: “What do I want for me?”
To the Reader
You don’t have to be a mom. Or Japanese. Or even married. If you’ve ever felt stuck between gratitude and burnout, if you’ve ever held a dream quietly in your chest while folding laundry, this blog is for you.
Welcome to my world. It’s not always pretty. But it’s real.
And that’s a good place to start.
“The Middle of the Story: Where the Rice Burns and the Budget Breaks”
It’s 5:15 p.m. and I’m standing in front of my fridge, holding a half-wilted bunch of spinach in one hand and a pack of chicken that expired yesterday in the other. I should be starting dinner, but instead I’m just staring—zoning out while my second son practices kanji in the living room and my oldest asks me, “Mom, do you remember where my recorder is?” No. No, I do not.
This—this middle part of the day, the life, the season—it’s what I call the “stretch.” The part where you’re stretched thin between duty and dreams, where nothing is bad but nothing quite feels like yours either.
🍱 The Bento Battle
Let’s talk about bento.
From the outside, it looks like a cute cultural tradition. A lovingly packed box of nutrition and aesthetic joy. But in reality? It’s a silent contest, an emotional negotiation, and sometimes a battleground.
I’m not competing with other moms (though Instagram might disagree)—I’m fighting the clock, my own guilt, and the little voice that says “a frozen karaage would be fine, but he deserves better.”
But making “better” five days a week, on a budget, with three schedules and a husband who “doesn’t really eat breakfast”? That’s a marathon with no medals.
It’s not just food—it’s a message:
“I love you, I’m here, I see you.”
But sometimes, I wish someone would pack me a bento too.
💰 Bills: The Dream-Killers in Disguise
Here’s a fun fact no one told me when I married a Japanese salaryman and quit my job: everything costs more than you think.
The house is small but the bills aren’t.
Electricity? Up 20% this year. Groceries? Don’t even ask.
And don’t get me started on school fees, uniforms, supplies, and those mysterious “extra” costs that appear monthly in the PTA envelope.
Sometimes I calculate my dreams in yen.
- Writing class: ¥15,000
- Hiring a sitter for 2 hours: ¥4,000
- Peace of mind: …still pending
We make it work. But I wonder—how many of us have stopped dreaming because the math didn’t add up?
🧒 Kids, Kōsō, and the Education Conveyor Belt
My kids are everything.
Which is another way of saying: they take everything I have.
In Japan, childhood is structured like a multi-stage exam. From yōchien entrance interviews to junior high cram schools, every year is another rung on a ladder to…where exactly? Stability? Respectability? Or just survival?
Sometimes I wonder if I’m teaching them how to thrive, or just how to comply.
And yet, I’m the one who’s expected to manage it all—school emails in keigo, the glue stick shortage, the suddenly announced “bring-your-own-dish-towel” days. My husband helps. But help and responsibility are not the same.
💬 Marriage in the Middle
He’s a good man. He works hard. He loves us.
But he doesn’t always see the layers of what I carry.
We talk logistics, not dreams. We text about milk and pickup times. And on weekends, we collapse into our phones or housework. Somewhere between the second child and the third loan payment, the conversations changed.
I don’t blame him. But sometimes, I miss us.
Sometimes, I miss me.
🧘♀️ The Cost of Self-Care
Everyone says, “Take time for yourself.”
Okay—but when?
At 11:40 p.m., when the last sock has been folded and tomorrow’s rice has been washed?
On the train platform between errands?
In the bath, if I lock the door and ignore the knocking?
Here’s the truth: self-care isn’t free. It costs time, money, and—most of all—permission.
Permission to say, “I matter, too.”
And that’s something I’m still working on.
🌱 So What Keeps Me Going?
Sometimes it’s something small—like finding an onigiri wrapper with a note my son left: “おかあさん、ありがとう。”
Sometimes it’s a fleeting moment of quiet when I’m drinking tea alone and the world doesn’t need me.
And sometimes, it’s the whisper of my own voice, reminding me that dreams don’t expire.
This is the messy middle.
The part where we question, bend, cope, snap, forgive, and show up again.
Not because we have to.
But because deep down, under the bills and bentos and burnout—there’s still a dream.
Still a me.
Still hope.
“Breaking Point: When the Pressure Turns to Pain (and Power)”
It didn’t happen in a dramatic explosion. There was no screaming or glass-shattering moment.
It happened quietly—on a Tuesday.
I had just dropped off my youngest at yōchien, ran to the supermarket, paid a bill at the post office, and returned home to realize I’d forgotten to hang the laundry I washed yesterday. The clothes smelled sour. Again.
I sat down on the floor of the kitchen.
Not on a cushion. Not at the table. Just… on the cold tile.
And I cried.
Not loudly. Not even for long.
But it was the kind of cry that leaks from a place deep down—the part of you that’s been holding its breath for too long.
💥 The Burnout We Don’t Talk About
In Japan, especially among women, especially among mothers—we’re taught to endure.
Shōganai, ne. It can’t be helped. Everyone’s tired. Everyone’s busy.
So what makes your pain special?
But here’s what I’ve learned:
Burnout doesn’t come from doing too much.
It comes from doing too much without being seen.
There’s a loneliness in invisible labor.
In remembering the sizes of everyone’s shoes but forgetting your own worth.
In organizing birthdays and doctor visits and school interviews—but never once being asked, “What do you want?”
The burnout crept in slowly.
Not just physical exhaustion—but emotional depletion. Like I was becoming a ghost in my own life. I was moving, functioning, smiling. But I was not really living.
🔄 The Day Everything Shifted
The moment on the kitchen floor didn’t solve anything.
But it did one important thing:
It made me stop pretending.
That night, I told my husband, plainly:
“I can’t keep doing everything. I’m not okay.”
He blinked. “But… you’re always okay.”
And there it was.
I had been so efficient, so capable, so endlessly available—that even the person closest to me couldn’t see how close I was to breaking.
It wasn’t his fault.
It was mine, too—for hiding it so well.
But the conversation that followed was messy, raw, and real.
And it opened a crack. A door. A space to breathe.
🛑 Setting Boundaries (Without Guilt… Mostly)
After that, I started saying no—softly at first, then with a little more confidence.
No, I won’t chair the PTA this year.
No, I can’t volunteer for every class event.
No, I’m not available every second of the day.
And each “no” was terrifying.
Would people judge me? Would they think I’m lazy? Ungrateful?
But something surprising happened: the world didn’t fall apart.
In fact, I became a little more me.
🌱 Starting to Dream Again
With a sliver of time and energy reclaimed, I began to write again.
Not long essays—just fragments. Notes. Haikus.
I started a tiny savings jar labeled “Me Fund.”
I reached out to old friends I had ghosted during the “busy years.”
One of them told me:
“Hey, you still have that fire. I can hear it in your voice again.”
It wasn’t a full transformation.
But it was enough to remind me:
I am allowed to be more than a mother, more than a wife, more than a lunchbox-filling machine.
I am allowed to dream.
Even in this small Tokyo apartment, even in this stage of life, even now.
✨ The Power in the Pain
There’s this phrase in Japanese:
七転び八起き (nanakorobi yaoki) — Fall down seven times, stand up eight.
I used to think it was about perseverance. But now I think it’s also about permission.
Permission to fall.
Permission to feel.
Permission to rise—imperfectly, incompletely, but still moving forward.
That day on the kitchen floor wasn’t my weakest moment.
It was my realest moment.
And from that place of surrender came something stronger than survival.
It became the start of something I hadn’t felt in years: hope.
“A New Kind of Dream: Redefining Success, Happiness, and ‘Having It All’”
I used to think that “having it all” meant doing everything well—being the perfect mom, the patient wife, the budget queen, the bento artist, the woman who smiled through it all.
But these days, I think “having it all” looks different.
It’s not a checklist. It’s a feeling.
It’s waking up and knowing that today, even if the rice burns or the laundry piles up, I still belong to myself.
💡 Redefining “Success” in Small Spaces
In Tokyo, success is often measured by status: how good your kid’s school is, how new your apartment is, what brand your husband’s bag is when he heads to work.
But in this season of my life, success means something quieter.
- Did I sit down today and enjoy my tea while it was still hot?
- Did I write something just for me, not for the PTA or the school?
- Did I say “no” to something I didn’t want to do—without guilt?
- Did I feel like myself, even for ten minutes?
These are not flashy wins.
But in a world that expects women to disappear into their duties, they are tiny acts of rebellion—and survival.
👣 Building a Life from the Inside Out
There’s no big finale here.
I didn’t quit everything and move to the mountains.
I didn’t start a multimillion-yen business from my kitchen table.
I didn’t become a supermom or a Zen master.
But I did begin again.
I now write regularly—sometimes here, sometimes in a hidden journal.
I signed up for an online course (in secret, at first—why does it feel like I need permission to learn again?).
I take walks alone, even if I have to wear headphones to drown out the grocery list forming in my head.
I am learning to build my life not around what others need from me, but around what makes me feel alive.
💬 Conversations That Finally Matter
My husband and I talk more honestly now.
Not just about logistics, but about how we’re doing—really doing.
I told him about the dreams I used to have.
He didn’t laugh. He nodded.
Then, he asked, “What can I do to help?”
That question still makes me emotional.
Because after so long being “the strong one,” I didn’t know how much I needed to be invited to lean on someone else.
Sometimes the greatest intimacy isn’t in grand romantic gestures—
It’s in being seen in your sweatpants, surrounded by unfolded laundry, and still being asked,
“What do you need?”
🌏 What I Hope This Blog Can Be
When I started writing, it was mostly for me—a place to unload the mental clutter and emotional static of motherhood and marriage in modern Japan.
But now, I hope this blog can be a space for you, too.
Whether you’re a mom in Tokyo or a woman in Toronto, if you’ve ever felt like your dreams are on hold, if you’ve ever questioned who you’ve become in the middle of everyone else’s needs, then I hope these words offer you a mirror, a nudge, or maybe even a little courage.
Because we don’t need to go big to go bold.
Sometimes boldness looks like a boundary.
Sometimes it’s in the sentence: “This is enough today.”
And sometimes, it’s in choosing to believe:
“I still get to want things. I still get to dream.”
🌱 So Where Do We Go From Here?
From here, we go slowly.
Deliberately.
With grace and with grit.
We choose what matters and release what doesn’t.
We fold the laundry with music on, not resentment.
We pack the bentos, but we also pack a part of ourselves—hopes, humor, care—into every box.
We forgive ourselves when we fall behind, and we celebrate when we don’t.
Most importantly, we remember that while the world may see us as “just housewives,”
we are architects of emotional worlds.
We are keepers of dreams—not just our children’s, but our own.
Final Thought:
Having big dreams in a small apartment, on a tight budget, with a full schedule isn’t foolish.
It’s brave.
It’s radical.
And it’s absolutely worth writing about.
So thank you for being here.
Thank you for reading, for seeing me.
And more than anything, I hope you keep seeing yourself.
Because you’re still in there.
And she’s worth everything.
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