Introduction
When I first heard the word ikigai in Japan, I thought it was just another way to say “passion.” You know, like the trendy posters on Pinterest that say follow your passion and success will follow. Coming from a culture where “passion” often means chasing after your dreams, working hard, and sometimes even making your name known to the world, I assumed ikigai was pointing in the same direction. But after living in Japan as a wife and mother, I realized that the nuance of ikigai is quite different. It isn’t only about chasing something you’re wildly enthusiastic about—it’s also about finding quiet, lasting fulfillment in the small, ordinary rhythms of daily life.
For many women here in Japan, including myself, ikigai doesn’t always show up in glamorous or obvious ways. It might not be about starting a business, becoming famous, or even achieving a lifelong dream. Instead, it often lives in simpler, subtler spaces—like preparing a healthy bento box for your children, caring for aging parents, or even just sharing seasonal traditions with neighbors. At first, I couldn’t understand how these everyday responsibilities could be tied to something as big as “life purpose.” Weren’t they just chores? But slowly, through observing people around me and reflecting on my own daily routines, I began to notice a deeper kind of fulfillment that comes from contributing, from being needed, and from being connected.
This perspective was a bit of a shock to me, because in the West, we often talk about passion in very individual terms. Passion is supposed to make you feel alive, to push your boundaries, to help you stand out. But in Japan, fulfillment—what people might connect to ikigai—often extends beyond the self. It’s about service, about how your role (no matter how small it looks from the outside) fits into the larger flow of community and family. I’ll be honest: at first, it felt limiting. Almost like personal dreams had to be put aside for the sake of others. But with time, I started to sense a unique kind of peace and pride in this interconnected way of living.
Let me give you a small example from my own daily life. I used to think that cooking three meals a day was just routine work, something that “had to be done.” But in Japan, I began to see how much meaning people attach to food—not just eating, but preparing, sharing, and presenting it with care. A neighbor once told me, “A meal is more than food; it’s a way of saying thank you to life.” At first, I laughed it off as something poetic. But the more I practiced it, the more I understood what she meant. Preparing food wasn’t just a task anymore; it was an act of contribution, of love, of connection. And surprisingly, that small act started to feel like one of my personal sources of ikigai.
Of course, this doesn’t mean that personal ambition is dismissed in Japan. There are plenty of people here chasing dreams, building careers, and pursuing passions. But what stands out is how often fulfillment is tied not just to self-achievement, but to one’s role in a web of relationships. It’s almost as if true purpose isn’t measured by “How far did I go on my own?” but by “How did my actions ripple out to others?”
So when we talk about “fulfillment” in a Japanese context, it’s not always about that fiery passion you might see celebrated in Western stories. It’s quieter. It grows slowly. And it often hides in places you might overlook if you’re only searching for excitement or recognition.
That’s why I wanted to start this series with the idea that fulfillment is more than just passion. Because once you notice the nuance, you begin to see daily life in a different light. Suddenly, the ordinary moments—brewing tea, tending a small garden, chatting with a friend—start to feel less like “nothing special” and more like essential threads in the fabric of a meaningful life.
And maybe that’s the heart of ikigai: not something you chase, but something you notice, nurture, and grow into.
Everyday Life as a Mirror of Fulfillment
Once I began noticing this quieter form of fulfillment in Japan, I realized that it wasn’t limited to my own household routines. It was everywhere—in the way communities worked together, in the small traditions that neighbors shared, and in the invisible web of responsibilities that people accepted as natural parts of life. What struck me most was that many Japanese people didn’t seem to separate “duty” from “purpose.” The things that, in my Western mindset, I had labeled as obligations or chores, were often embraced here as meaningful contributions.
For example, my neighborhood in Japan organizes seasonal clean-ups, where residents gather to sweep streets, trim plants, and pick up litter. Back in my home country, this kind of task might be done by city workers or hired services, and participation from residents would feel like “volunteering.” But here, it’s a natural rhythm—an unspoken understanding that keeping the shared space beautiful is part of being a community member. At first, I went along out of politeness, broom in hand, unsure if I really belonged. But over time, I noticed how these gatherings weren’t just about cleaning—they were about bonding. Neighbors chatted about their kids, exchanged recipes, or gave advice about daily problems. The physical act of sweeping became almost secondary; what mattered was showing up, contributing, and being part of something bigger.
And here’s the surprising part: I started looking forward to it. Something as simple as pulling weeds on a Saturday morning, surrounded by neighbors, began to feel…fulfilling. It wasn’t glamorous. It wasn’t about my personal ambitions. But it was about belonging, and that sense of connection gave me a kind of satisfaction I hadn’t expected.
This experience helped me see why Japanese people often describe ikigai not as a single grand passion, but as a collection of small things that make life feel worthwhile. When I asked a local friend what her ikigai was, she didn’t talk about her career or hobbies. She simply said, “Taking care of my family, and seeing my children grow.” Another neighbor said, “My garden. Even if it’s small, it gives me life.” These answers sounded so modest compared to the Western idea of passion, but when I looked at the way their faces lit up, I realized there was nothing “small” about them.
Another layer of this cultural nuance is the way contribution often extends across generations. In my own household, I noticed how much emphasis was placed on caring for elders. When my husband’s parents visit, the entire family naturally adjusts to their needs—preparing softer foods, adjusting schedules, even changing the way the living room is set up to make them comfortable. At first, I thought it was stressful, like the whole house was bending over backwards. But then I noticed something else: the gratitude and respect that flowed both ways. My in-laws didn’t see our efforts as sacrifice—they saw it as love, and they expressed it often. Over time, I began to feel a deep pride in being part of this circle of care. It wasn’t about me shining as an individual; it was about strengthening bonds that would last beyond a single lifetime.
What surprised me most was how this mindset even shaped smaller, everyday acts. For instance, I once spent weeks trying to perfect my homemade miso soup recipe. I treated it like a personal project, trying different ratios of dashi and miso. But when I proudly served it to my family, the joy didn’t come from my achievement alone—it came from their reaction, their smiles, the conversation that followed. In that moment, the soup wasn’t just mine; it became part of our shared life. That’s when it clicked for me: fulfillment in Japan often isn’t measured by personal milestones, but by the way something ripples outward into family, neighbors, or community.
This isn’t to say Japanese life is free of pressure. In fact, many people here struggle with expectations, long working hours, or social obligations. I’ve also felt weighed down by the pressure to “do things the proper way.” But even in those moments, I’ve noticed that fulfillment still sneaks in through connection. When I vented to another mom about how exhausting PTA responsibilities were, she laughed and said, “Yes, it’s tiring, but at least we laugh together, right?” That simple sentence reminded me that even shared struggles can become sources of meaning.
Looking back, I think this is the biggest difference from my original understanding of passion. Passion can sometimes feel isolating—like you’re climbing your own mountain alone. But the Japanese approach to fulfillment feels more like walking through a village path, side by side with others. Your steps matter, but so does the way you walk together.
The more I lived this way, the more I realized that ikigai doesn’t have to be something dramatic. It doesn’t have to change the world. It just has to connect you—to people, to routines, to small joys that stitch life together. And maybe, that’s why it lasts longer than the fleeting fire of passion alone.
When Fulfillment Becomes a Burden
Up until now, I’ve painted a picture of Japanese fulfillment—ikigai—as something deeply connected to community, family, and contribution. And while that’s true, I also need to be honest about the other side of the story. Because sometimes, what looks like fulfillment can also feel like pressure. The same cultural values that bring meaning can, at times, weigh heavily on individuals—especially women, and especially those balancing multiple roles.
When I first embraced the idea of finding purpose in daily responsibilities, it felt refreshing. But over time, I noticed moments where this mindset turned into something suffocating. For instance, in Japan, there’s a strong expectation for mothers to dedicate themselves completely to their children’s education. From preparing the perfect lunchboxes to managing after-school activities, the level of detail expected can be overwhelming. I remember staying up late at night, cutting vegetables into cute shapes for a kindergarten bento, because other moms were doing it. Did that really make my child happier? Or was I doing it just to keep up with social expectations? In those moments, fulfillment felt more like performance.
Another layer of complexity comes with the tradition of caring for elders. As meaningful as it is, it can also be exhausting—physically and emotionally. A close friend of mine once admitted that while she loved her parents-in-law dearly, the constant caregiving left her drained. “Sometimes,” she whispered, “I just want a day for myself, without anyone needing me.” Hearing her words, I realized that the beauty of interconnectedness also has a shadow side: it can blur the line between genuine purpose and self-sacrifice.
Even in community activities, the sense of duty can become overwhelming. Neighborhood meetings, PTA gatherings, seasonal festivals—while these events build bonds, they also require time, energy, and often financial contributions. I once confided to another mom that I felt anxious about an upcoming PTA event because I wasn’t sure how to contribute properly. She sighed and said, “Yes, it’s fulfilling…but it never ends.” That phrase stuck with me. Fulfillment is supposed to give energy, but what happens when it constantly demands more than you can give?
This is where the Western idea of passion sometimes feels liberating in comparison. Passion, in its individualistic sense, gives you permission to pursue something purely for yourself, without needing to justify it to others. In contrast, the Japanese model of ikigai—beautiful as it is—can make it hard to say “no.” The word gaman (endurance, patience) often enters the picture, pushing people to continue even when they’re burnt out. And while endurance has its virtues, it can also lead to resentment or even health issues.
I experienced this clash personally when I tried to balance part-time work with my role at home. I wanted to contribute financially, and I also wanted a sense of independence beyond the household. But I quickly learned how hard it was to juggle everything. On one side, there was the workplace expectation for commitment; on the other, the family and community expectations for me to always be present. At times, it felt like whichever choice I made, I was letting someone down. Was my ikigai supposed to be found in sacrifice? Or could it also include my own personal growth?
This tension made me question the very definition of fulfillment. If I’m constantly giving, constantly meeting expectations, but secretly feeling depleted—can that still count as ikigai? Or is it simply conformity dressed up as purpose?
I don’t want to sound overly negative, because many Japanese women I know genuinely find joy in their roles. But I also think it’s important to acknowledge that fulfillment here is complex. It’s not always the serene picture painted in lifestyle books about ikigai. Sometimes, it’s messy. Sometimes, it’s exhausting. And sometimes, it demands a level of self-erasure that feels unfair.
The turning point for me came when I admitted this to myself. Fulfillment doesn’t always arrive as a soft glow of satisfaction. Sometimes, it hides behind frustration, fatigue, and even resentment. The key is recognizing when you’re living for connection and contribution—and when you’re simply drowning under the weight of expectations.
And maybe, this is where the Japanese concept of ikigai needs to be re-examined, especially in modern life. Because while the traditional model emphasizes community and service, there’s also growing awareness that personal well-being matters too.
Redefining Fulfillment in a Balanced Way
After wrestling with both the beauty and the burden of fulfillment in Japan, I came to an important realization: ikigai isn’t meant to be a rigid formula or an endless list of responsibilities. It’s not about perfection, and it’s not about sacrificing yourself until you’re empty. Instead, it’s about balance—finding a way to connect with others and contribute meaningfully, while also protecting your own joy and energy.
One of the first steps I took was allowing myself to say no. It sounds simple, but in Japan, especially for women involved in family and community life, “no” can feel almost impossible. I remember the first time I declined a PTA task because I was overwhelmed with work. I felt guilty, like I was failing my role as a mother. But to my surprise, another mom quietly pulled me aside and said, “I admire you for being honest. I wish I could do that, too.” That moment taught me that sometimes, redefining fulfillment means being brave enough to set boundaries. After all, how can we contribute meaningfully if we’re constantly exhausted?
I also started looking for small ways to weave my passions into the web of daily responsibilities. For example, I love writing. At first, it felt selfish to carve out time for it when there were so many other demands. But once I began writing about my experiences—like I’m doing in this blog—I realized it wasn’t just for me. Other women related, shared their own stories, and even said it gave them comfort. That’s when I understood: our personal passions don’t have to be separate from ikigai. They can be part of it, as long as they connect us with others in some way.
Self-care also became a quiet but powerful tool. In a culture that often values gaman (endurance), taking time for yourself can feel indulgent. But I found that even small rituals—like enjoying tea in silence, taking a short walk alone, or simply reading a book without guilt—helped restore my energy. And when I returned to my family or community after those moments, I was more present, more patient, and more genuinely fulfilled.
What’s interesting is that Japanese culture itself is slowly shifting in this direction. Younger generations are more open about personal well-being, mental health, and the importance of individuality. While the traditional view of ikigai is rooted in service and interconnectedness, the modern interpretation increasingly makes space for personal dreams, self-expression, and flexibility. Watching this change gives me hope that fulfillment here can continue to evolve into something both communal and personal.
At the heart of it all, I’ve learned that fulfillment doesn’t have to be one big, shining answer. It’s not about choosing between passion and duty, or between self and others. It’s about weaving them together in a way that feels sustainable. Some days, my ikigai is found in the sparkle of my child’s eyes when I serve dinner. Other days, it’s in the quiet of my notebook as I write. And often, it’s in the laughter of neighbors as we sweep the streets together.
If I could give one message to anyone reading this—especially women juggling roles, responsibilities, and dreams—it would be this: don’t chase fulfillment as if it’s a trophy. Instead, notice it in the everyday. Nurture it in small acts of connection. Protect it by listening to your own needs. And remember that ikigai isn’t about living up to others’ expectations—it’s about creating a life that feels meaningful to you, in your own rhythm.
In the end, fulfillment is more than passion. It’s a balance of giving and receiving, of belonging and being yourself. And when you allow both sides to coexist, you discover a kind of peace that lasts longer than the fleeting fire of passion alone.
So next time you ask yourself, “What is my purpose?”—don’t pressure yourself to find a grand answer. Instead, look at the small, ordinary things that make you feel alive. Chances are, your ikigai is already there, waiting quietly in your everyday life.
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