Introduction
When I first moved to Japan, I carried with me the same beliefs about success that most of us are raised with. Study hard, get into a good school, land a stable job, climb the ladder, and eventually, you’ll “make it.” It sounded simple, almost like a recipe. But once I started living here as a wife and mother, surrounded by Japanese culture and its quiet yet deeply rooted values, I realized that this linear path—so celebrated back home—often doesn’t bring the fulfillment we expect.
In fact, it can lead to something else entirely: exhaustion, disconnection, and a constant sense of “not enough.”
This is where Japan surprised me. Beneath the hustle of Tokyo trains and the pressure of corporate life, there exists a completely different mindset about what it means to live well. It’s subtle, often unspoken, but it shapes everything—from the way neighbors greet each other with a bow to how families spend time together during simple seasonal traditions.
And here’s the part that flips the script: in Japan, success is less about the big, shiny achievements and more about the small, consistent ways you contribute—to your family, your community, and even to yourself.
At first, this was hard for me to accept. Coming from a culture where “bigger is better” and where your worth is often tied to productivity or income, it felt almost wrong to slow down. Shouldn’t I be aiming higher, working harder, pushing myself constantly? But day by day, as I navigated life here—shopping at the local market, chatting with moms at my children’s school, even participating in neighborhood cleanups—I began to see that this slower, more community-focused rhythm was not just an alternative way of living. It was, in many ways, a healthier one.
Forget everything you’ve been taught about “making it.” What I discovered in Japan is that “making it” doesn’t mean chasing milestones until you’re too tired to enjoy them. It means finding balance, belonging, and a sense of meaning in the everyday.
This realization didn’t come overnight. It came through moments—some frustrating, some eye-opening—where I had to let go of my old definition of achievement and embrace a new one.
And that’s what I want to share with you.
Because once you shift how you define success, the pressure lifts. You stop measuring yourself against impossible standards, and you start noticing the quiet joys of life—like the sound of cicadas in summer, or the warmth of a neighbor offering homemade pickles, or even just the peace of sitting in your garden with a cup of tea.
In this series, I’ll walk you through how Japan’s unique social mindset, deeply tied to concepts like ikigai (a reason for being), wa (harmony), and the beauty of the everyday, helped me break free from the burnout-driven model of success I once believed in.
But first, let me tell you how I began to see cracks in my old way of thinking—how I went from chasing achievements to questioning whether they truly made me happy.
When the Cracks Started to Show
The cracks in my old definition of success began to show almost immediately after I settled into life in Japan. On the surface, everything seemed fine. My husband was working, my children were adjusting to school, and I was doing my best to manage our household. But inside, I felt restless.
Back home, I used to measure myself by productivity—how many tasks I crossed off my to-do list, how efficiently I managed my time, or how quickly I could move on to the “next big thing.” In Japan, however, I found that life didn’t always bend to that kind of efficiency.
Take something as simple as shopping. At the supermarket in my neighborhood, I noticed how people took their time choosing vegetables, inspecting each daikon radish or bunch of spinach. It wasn’t rushed. The staff would even chat with customers, asking about their family or the weather. At first, I grew impatient. Why can’t we just speed this up? But slowly, I realized that for them, this wasn’t just shopping. It was part of community life, part of maintaining small connections that give meaning to daily routines.
Another moment came during my children’s school events. In my home country, school activities often focus on competition—who runs the fastest, who gets the highest score. But here in Japan, sports day (undōkai) was different. The races weren’t just about winning; they were about teamwork, cheering for classmates, and making sure everyone participated. Even the parents joined in, laughing and running alongside their kids.
It struck me: in Japan, the goal isn’t always to stand out as the best. Often, the goal is to be part of the group, to create harmony, to celebrate effort rather than just results.
And then there were the neighborhood cleanups. Back home, I would never have imagined spending a Sunday morning sweeping leaves or pulling weeds from a public walkway. But in Japan, it’s common. At first, I joined reluctantly—thinking it was just another chore. But as I worked alongside elderly neighbors and young families, I felt something I hadn’t experienced in a long time: belonging.
That’s when it hit me. My old definition of success—personal achievement, individual milestones, and constant striving—wasn’t only exhausting; it was isolating. It had always been about me: my career, my progress, my goals. But here, I was being invited into a way of living where success was shared. Where it wasn’t about shining alone but contributing to the light of the whole community.
This realization wasn’t comfortable at first. It challenged everything I thought I knew about ambition and achievement. I caught myself resisting, thinking, If I stop striving, won’t I fall behind? Won’t I lose myself?
But the more I observed—and the more I lived—the clearer it became: this wasn’t about losing myself. It was about redefining myself.
Japan was teaching me, slowly and sometimes painfully, that true success is not about sprinting alone to the finish line. It’s about walking together, at a pace that allows you to breathe, connect, and actually enjoy the journey.
And this is where the shift began: from chasing, to questioning; from competing, to belonging.
In the next part, I’ll share how I started to embrace this new perspective—not just observing it, but living it—and how it transformed not only my daily life but also the way I see my own worth.
From Resistance to Redefinition
Even after noticing the differences in Japan’s mindset about success, I didn’t adopt them right away. Old habits die hard. For a long time, I still clung to my familiar belief: success equals progress, and progress equals constant striving.
This inner conflict showed up in my daily life.
For example, when I saw other mothers in my community dedicating time to making elaborate bentō (lunchboxes) for their children, I felt a pang of guilt. I thought, Am I failing as a mother because I don’t do it perfectly? My instinct was to “work harder” and compete—even in motherhood. But the Japanese moms didn’t see it that way. For them, it wasn’t about showing off or proving who could make the cutest lunch. It was about care, a quiet expression of love in small, everyday routines.
Then there was my husband’s work environment. I expected him to be rewarded for bold individual achievements, as would be the case in many Western workplaces. But here, I saw that promotions and recognition often went not to the loudest voices, but to those who maintained harmony, supported their teams, and built trust over time. That frustrated me at first. Why isn’t individual brilliance celebrated more? But slowly, I began to see the wisdom in it: success here isn’t a solo performance; it’s an ensemble.
The real turning point came one afternoon during a local festival. The whole community had gathered, from children to grandparents, to set up decorations, prepare food stalls, and dance together. I noticed how everyone had a role, big or small, and how no one seemed to be striving for the spotlight. Yet, the joy was undeniable. It wasn’t about one person’s achievement—it was about creating something beautiful together.
Standing there, watching my kids laugh with their friends while elderly neighbors taught them traditional songs, I realized something profound:
👉 My definition of success had always been centered on outcomes.
But Japan was showing me the importance of process.
It wasn’t about reaching the top of the mountain as quickly as possible. It was about walking the path with others, noticing the scenery, and being part of something greater than myself.
This shift wasn’t easy. My old mindset whispered constantly: You’re not doing enough. You’re falling behind. You should be more productive. But Japan gave me daily reminders to quiet that voice. The seasonal changes marked by festivals and foods, the rhythm of school terms, the way neighbors exchange greetings in the morning—all of these grounded me in the present. They reminded me that life is not a race; it’s a cycle.
Perhaps the most powerful moment was when a Japanese friend shared the concept of ikigai with me—not as a trendy self-help buzzword, but as something lived quietly in daily life. She explained that ikigai isn’t about chasing one grand passion or career achievement. It can be found in simple things: tending a garden, caring for family, or perfecting a craft over decades.
That conversation stayed with me. I realized that while I had been chasing big milestones, I was overlooking the quiet joys that were already in front of me.
And so, slowly, I began to redefine success for myself. Not as climbing higher, faster, or further, but as living in a way that felt balanced, connected, and meaningful.
This was my turning point—the moment I stopped resisting and started embracing a new perspective.
A New Definition of Success
When I finally let go of my old definition of success, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years: relief. For so long, I had been chasing a moving target—higher goals, bigger milestones, more recognition. And every time I reached one, the finish line moved further away. But living in Japan taught me that success doesn’t have to be a race. It can be a rhythm, a balance, a way of living that nurtures rather than drains you.
So what does that look like in practice?
For me, it meant starting small. Instead of obsessing over whether my children’s lunchboxes looked Instagram-worthy, I focused on making them meals with care—even if it was just rice balls and simple vegetables. Instead of comparing myself to other moms, I started enjoying the conversations at school pick-up, realizing that those small connections mattered more than appearances.
It also meant reframing how I viewed my own time. Back home, I would feel guilty for sitting still. Here, I’ve learned to enjoy moments of quiet—sipping tea while listening to cicadas in summer, or watching the snow fall in winter. Those moments don’t “achieve” anything in the traditional sense, but they give me peace. And that peace is priceless.
Most importantly, it meant embracing community. I now look forward to the neighborhood cleanups, not because I love pulling weeds, but because I know it strengthens bonds with the people around me. I’ve discovered that true fulfillment comes not from standing out, but from belonging.
This doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned ambition altogether. I still set goals. I still want to grow. But I no longer define myself only by how much I achieve or how fast I get there. Instead, I ask myself:
- Does this bring me closer to balance?
- Does this nurture my relationships?
- Does this give me a sense of meaning?
If the answer is yes, then to me, that’s success.
Looking back, I realize that the “myth” of success I grew up with—study hard, work harder, achieve more—wasn’t wrong for everyone, but it was incomplete. It ignored the human need for rest, for connection, for joy in the everyday. Japan filled in that missing piece for me.
Now, when I think about the future, I don’t imagine a checklist of achievements. I imagine a life where I can continue to grow, but also one where I can savor the present. I imagine my children learning not just to succeed, but to find joy in small moments. I imagine being part of a community where we support each other, not compete endlessly.
That, to me, is the ultimate success.
So if you’ve ever felt burned out, if you’ve ever wondered whether chasing “more” is really making you happy, I encourage you to pause and look around. Maybe the key isn’t in running faster, but in walking slower. Maybe it’s in the small, ordinary routines that hold extraordinary meaning.
Japan taught me this lesson not through lectures or books, but through daily life—through bentō boxes, community cleanups, seasonal festivals, and quiet conversations with neighbors. And once I embraced it, everything changed.
Forget everything you’ve been taught about “making it.” Redefine it for yourself. You might just find that success was already within reach—in the simple, beautiful, ordinary moments of your everyday life.
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