“Once Upon a Tatami: How It All Began”
I didn’t dream of a big white wedding.
When I was a little girl, I didn’t wrap pillowcases over my head pretending to be a bride. I didn’t doodle hearts with anyone’s name in the margins of my notebooks. In fact, marriage wasn’t really something I thought about at all—until I was in it.
Growing up in Japan, marriage was more of a natural life checkpoint than a passionate goal. You go to school, get a job, and then—clock’s ticking—you get married. Maybe not in that exact order, but close enough. I followed the pattern, met someone, got engaged, and before I could fully process it, I was standing in a softly lit ceremony room, bowing to relatives, and repeating vows I barely remember now.
What I do remember, though, is the rice cooker.
Yes, the rice cooker.
After the wedding, we moved into a cozy apartment with thin walls and too many extension cords. I unpacked my belongings, and then stared at the box containing the rice cooker my mom had given us as a wedding gift. That rice cooker symbolized everything I was supposed to become — a nurturing, practical, home-managing wife who could whip up dinner while keeping the laundry spinning and the peace maintained.
But here’s the thing: I didn’t know how to cook rice.
Not properly, anyway.
And that’s how my marriage began: not with fireworks, but with a bubbling pot of uncertainty and a lot of Googling things like “how to make miso soup without dashi.”
That moment — quiet, ordinary, and a little embarrassing — has come to represent what marriage has truly been like for me. It’s not about picture-perfect dinners or Instagram-worthy vacations. It’s about fumbling through new roles, awkward silences, and surprise moments of growth. It’s about learning on the job, both as a wife and as a person.
Over the years, my husband and I have built something that’s uniquely ours — and, I’ll be honest, it hasn’t always been smooth. There were times we barely talked, times we talked too much, and times I wasn’t sure if we were growing together or drifting apart.
But that’s the story I want to tell here. Not the fantasy version of marriage with curated date nights and matching outfits, but the messy, evolving chronicle of two people sharing a life — with all the miscommunications, quiet triumphs, cultural norms, and personal revolutions that come with it.
In this blog series, I’ll be sharing our journey from a Japanese housewife’s perspective. Not just the highlights, but the behind-the-scenes too — like how we handle disagreements without slamming doors, how we stay connected after becoming parents, and how we learned (sometimes the hard way) to really hear each other.
This first post is just the beginning — the “once upon a tatami” of our story.
So if you’ve ever wondered what marriage looks like beyond the wedding photos — especially in the context of modern Japanese life — I invite you to join me as we walk through the chronicle. It’s not always pretty, but it’s always real.
And it all started with that rice cooker.
“Weathering the Seasons: What Comes After ‘I Do’”
After the honeymoon photos faded into digital folders and thank-you cards were all sent out, we were left with… silence.
Not an uncomfortable silence, exactly — just an everyday, “what’s for dinner?” kind of quiet that settles in once the music fades and real life begins.
At first, I thought this was just us getting comfortable. But over time, I realized that we had entered a different season of marriage — one where things weren’t new anymore, and the effort required to maintain our connection didn’t come automatically. It had to be intentional.
The Myth of Natural Understanding
Like many Japanese couples, we didn’t grow up seeing affection openly expressed at home. My parents rarely hugged. Conversations were short, efficient. Disagreements? Mostly avoided. So, when I got married, I subconsciously expected things to just “click” — that my husband would understand my moods, read my signals, and anticipate my needs, like some kind of telepathic partner.
Of course, that didn’t happen. And when he failed to meet those unspoken expectations, I got frustrated. He, in turn, felt like he was being blamed for something invisible. We fell into what I call the “silent cycle”:
→ I withdraw because I feel misunderstood.
→ He withdraws because he feels confused.
→ Both of us feel alone, even in the same room.
It took us too long to realize that “natural understanding” is a myth — and that communication in marriage isn’t about reading minds, it’s about revealing them.
Learning to Talk Again
Our breakthrough didn’t come through some dramatic fight or counseling session. It came in a quiet kitchen, during an argument over misplacing the garbage bags. I was snapping at him, but what I really wanted to say was, “I feel overwhelmed and invisible right now.” He finally said, “It’s not about the trash, is it?”
That question broke the ice. For the first time in weeks, we stopped defending ourselves and started listening. Like, really listening. Not to respond, but to understand.
Since then, we’ve tried to build a habit of checking in — not just about schedules, but about feelings. “How’s your energy today?” “Do you feel like we’re working as a team lately?” These small questions have helped us build big bridges.
We also made a strange rule: we fight in the morning.
Why? Because arguments at night tend to spiral into exhaustion and silence. In the morning, we’re clearer, more generous, and — importantly — have coffee in hand.
Gender Roles: Rewriting the Script
As a Japanese housewife, I found myself slipping into roles I hadn’t consciously chosen. I did most of the cleaning, meal planning, social calendar management — even though I’d once said we’d be “equals.” My husband didn’t object; in fact, he often thanked me. But still, I began to feel like the invisible CEO of our household — responsible for everything, consulted for nothing.
It took courage (and a few emotional breakdowns) to say:
“This isn’t working for me anymore.”
What surprised me was his response. He wasn’t defensive. He was relieved. He had been afraid of doing things “wrong,” so he avoided them altogether. Once we talked openly, he took over certain responsibilities — like managing our finances and helping with our child’s school forms — and began to take initiative without being asked.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress.
The Role of Rituals
One small but powerful change we made was introducing micro-rituals into our week. Nothing grand — just simple, repeatable moments of connection.
- Sunday coffee walks (even if we don’t talk much).
- “No-phone” dinners on Wednesdays.
- A handwritten note in his lunchbox once a month.
These little rituals became emotional touchpoints — anchors that reminded us: yes, life is busy, but we still see each other.
In This Season, I’ve Learned:
- Silence doesn’t always mean peace.
- A good marriage isn’t effortless; it’s just well-practiced.
- Love isn’t just in the big gestures — it’s in the dishwasher being emptied without asking.
Marriage is not a fixed destination; it’s a rhythm. And like any rhythm, it takes listening, adjusting, and sometimes — dancing through the awkward beats.
In the next section of this chronicle, I’ll dive into the “転” part of our story — the moments of conflict, of crisis, of real transformation. Because no long partnership survives without challenge. And it’s in those moments that the foundation of love is tested… and, if you’re lucky, strengthened.
“Cracks in the Tatami: Breaking Points and Breakthroughs”
Somewhere between the morning coffee walks and late-night laundry, a strange numbness started to creep in.
We weren’t fighting.
We weren’t even disagreeing much.
We were just… distant.
Like two ships slowly drifting apart in the same fog, still within view but no longer signaling each other.
At first, I blamed the pandemic. Then parenting. Then exhaustion. But deep down, I knew: something in our marriage was shifting, and not in a direction I liked.
The Day I Almost Walked Out
I remember the exact day it cracked. It wasn’t because of anything dramatic. It was toothpaste.
He left the cap off again.
I snapped.
He sighed.
I cried — not because of the toothpaste, of course, but because I felt invisible. Again.
I said something like,
“Do you even see me anymore? Or am I just a roommate who cooks and folds your socks?”
Silence.
Not the thoughtful kind.
The hollow kind.
That night, I packed a bag. Not to leave permanently, but to make a point. I stayed at a friend’s place. I needed space — not from him, but from the version of myself I was becoming: resentful, unheard, quietly unraveling.
That night changed us.
Because it forced us to ask a question we’d both been avoiding:
Do we still want to choose each other?
Choosing Each Other — Again
What followed wasn’t a Hollywood-style reunion. There were no airport chases or tearful embraces. Just a quiet, honest conversation at the kitchen table the next day. We talked like people who didn’t know if they could go on together — and strangely, that’s what saved us.
He told me something I’ll never forget:
“I thought you were pulling away because you didn’t love me anymore. So I pulled back to protect myself.”
That hit me like a truck. Because I’d been doing the exact same thing.
We were both trying to avoid pain, and in doing so, we’d built emotional walls so high we couldn’t even see each other anymore.
From that day, we made a pact:
No more guessing.
No more assumptions.
If something hurts, we say it.
If something matters, we show it.
Sounds simple, right? It wasn’t. It took time — and we stumbled, a lot.
Marriage Counseling, Japanese-Style
Here’s something that might surprise you: seeking professional help for marriage is still a bit taboo in Japan. Therapy is often seen as a last resort, something for “broken people.” But we decided to break that mold.
We found a bilingual therapist online (thank you, Zoom) and booked three sessions. Not because we were falling apart — but because we wanted tools to stay together.
She gave us a practice we still use today:
“Name, Frame, Claim.”
- Name the feeling (“I feel ignored when you scroll during dinner”)
- Frame the context (“It’s been a hard week for both of us”)
- Claim what you need (“Can we try to have 20 minutes together without screens?”)
It’s awkward at first. But powerful.
Because once we stopped blaming and started naming, everything changed.
The Gender Expectations That Nearly Broke Us
One major source of tension came from invisible cultural scripts.
In Japan, many people still expect women — even working ones — to carry the emotional and domestic labor. This expectation isn’t always spoken aloud, but it’s felt deeply. I found myself juggling part-time work, house duties, PTA meetings, and emotional support for our child — while my husband “helped” by doing chores I had to ask him to do.
One day, I said:
“If I have to ask you, it’s not shared responsibility. It’s delegation.”
That landed.
We sat down and actually wrote out every single task — not just physical chores, but mental ones: remembering birthdays, tracking our son’s shoe size, coordinating family visits. The list was staggering. But it was also liberating. He finally saw what I had been carrying.
Now, we have a rotating “home manager” role that switches every Sunday night. It’s not perfect, but it has made our home — and our marriage — feel more balanced.
When Love Doesn’t Feel Romantic
I’ll be honest. Romance faded.
There was a time when a single touch from him made my heart skip.
Now? Sometimes it’s just: “Can you move over? You’re hogging the futon.”
But here’s the thing: love changes — it doesn’t vanish. It deepens, grows roots.
What we lost in butterflies, we gained in trust.
We may not write love letters anymore, but we write grocery lists with care.
We may not hold hands in public often, but we hold each other’s anxieties in private.
Love, I’ve learned, is in the details.
In warming up the bath when he’s had a long day.
In remembering to buy his favorite yogurt.
In saying, “I see you” — not just in words, but in actions.
“Still Choosing You: The Quiet Power of Staying”
These days, I still make rice almost every morning.
The same rice cooker. The same routine. But something’s different.
It’s not just that I’ve perfected the water-to-rice ratio (though I have).
It’s the feeling I carry when I press that button.
It’s no longer: This is my duty.
It’s: This is part of the life we built — together.
What “Happily Ever After” Really Looks Like
If you’d told me on our wedding day that real love would look like texting about milk, surviving flu season as co-captains, or sitting in silence after an exhausting day — I might’ve been disappointed.
But now I know better.
Marriage isn’t the story of eternal bliss. It’s the story of daily recommitment.
Some days, that recommitment is easy. Other days, it’s a choice made through clenched teeth and tired eyes. And some days, the most loving thing we do is just give each other space.
And that’s okay.
“Happily ever after” doesn’t mean happy every moment.
It means we stay. We grow.
We give each other the chance to change — and meet again.
Rewriting Our Own Script
There was a time I thought being a “good wife” in Japan meant quiet endurance.
Don’t complain. Keep the peace. Serve well. Smile often.
But silence didn’t make me strong. It made me disappear.
Now, I speak.
Not always eloquently. Sometimes clumsily. But I speak.
And my husband — who once thought emotions were things to be managed quietly — now listens with intention. He doesn’t always get it right. Neither do I. But we’ve learned to apologize. To adjust. To try again.
Our marriage isn’t traditional anymore. It’s not modern, either. It’s just ours.
It doesn’t follow a rulebook. It follows rhythm, ritual, respect — and a whole lot of improvisation.
Building a Marriage, Not Just Living in One
Marriage is often described as something you “enter.”
But honestly, that sounds too passive. You don’t just enter it like a building. You build it, brick by brick.
Our bricks are small:
- A 15-minute talk before bed, even when we’re tired.
- Taking turns planning a monthly date, even if it’s just coffee at a park.
- Saying “thank you” even for the expected things.
- Laughing at the same stupid joke for the 40th time.
None of this is glamorous.
But this is what our love looks like now:
Quiet. Daily. Durable.
Looking Forward, Side by Side
We’ve been married almost a decade now.
We’ve grown from young newlyweds with matching mugs to parents juggling sleep schedules, finances, aging parents, and work stress.
Some days I look at him and still see the 20-something guy who made me laugh during awkward omiai-style introductions.
Other days I see a stranger I have to learn all over again.
Both are real. Both are precious.
We don’t know what the next chapter will bring.
Maybe we’ll move cities. Maybe one of us will change careers. Maybe our son will leave home and the silence will return — but this time, we’ll fill it with something better.
What I do know is this:
We’re not perfect. We’re practiced.
And that matters more.
In This Conclusion, I’ve Learned:
- Love is less about feelings, more about actions.
- Intimacy isn’t about grand gestures, but deep noticing.
- Marriage is a living thing — and it survives when both people keep showing up.
I used to think marriage was the end of a love story. Now I know:
It’s the beginning of something much more powerful — a collaboration, a daily ritual, a quiet revolution.
So to anyone reading this, wondering if they’re doing marriage “right” — maybe don’t worry about right or wrong.
Ask instead:
Are we growing?
Are we choosing each other, still?
Can we be honest, even when it’s hard?
If the answer is “yes” — even some days — you’re already doing something beautiful.
Final Note to My Reader:
If you’ve made it through all four parts of this chronicle — thank you.
This was never meant to be a how-to manual. Just one woman’s honest account of what marriage can feel like: confusing, sacred, ordinary, transformative.
Whether you’re married, single, divorced, or figuring it out — I hope these words reminded you that real love isn’t shiny. It’s shared.
Even if the rice burns sometimes.
コメント