When I first moved to Japan, I often heard people talking about “success” in ways that felt strangely familiar yet oddly heavy. Promotions at work, buying a house in Tokyo, sending kids to prestigious schools, or having the perfect-looking family photos to post online—these were the checkboxes that defined a “good life.” It sounded so similar to what I had grown up with in my own country, but here in Japan, I noticed an extra layer of quiet pressure, an unspoken expectation that everyone was supposed to follow the same script.
At first, I admired it. There was a sense of order, of stability. In a world where everything feels uncertain, who wouldn’t want a clear set of rules to follow that supposedly lead to happiness? Work hard, save money, own property, raise children who excel academically—that’s success, right? But over time, as I began to make friends with local mothers, join community activities, and observe the rhythms of everyday life, I realized that behind the polished image of “success,” many women (and men too) carried a quiet fatigue.
One of my Japanese friends once told me over tea, “My husband has a great job, we live in a nice apartment, and my son goes to one of the best schools. But honestly, I don’t feel happy. Sometimes I feel more like I’m performing a role than actually living my life.” Her confession stayed with me. I had expected her to feel fulfilled, maybe even proud of her achievements, but instead, she admitted to feeling empty. It wasn’t a lack of effort, it wasn’t a lack of discipline—it was that the goalposts themselves were outdated.
And it’s not just her. I’ve heard similar stories from others in my neighborhood. A father who works endless overtime to maintain the family’s lifestyle but rarely sees his children awake. A grandmother who once raised her kids in the “bubble economy” era, reflecting with bittersweet honesty that chasing money and material success didn’t bring her the joy she thought it would. A young mother who, despite having the “picture-perfect Instagram life,” feels anxious every night scrolling through other people’s even shinier lives.
The irony is that while society praises these people as “winners,” many of them feel like they’re quietly losing—losing time, losing energy, losing themselves. In Japan, this tension is particularly visible. Social media amplifies it, making the game of comparison endless. It’s not just about keeping up with your neighbors anymore; it’s about keeping up with the entire internet. And yet, very few people openly admit this gap between appearance and reality.
I remember walking through a busy shopping district in Tokyo one Saturday afternoon. Families were carrying shopping bags, couples taking selfies, children holding limited-edition toys. Everything looked vibrant and successful on the surface. But I couldn’t help wondering how many of those smiles were genuine, and how many were just another performance in the long pursuit of “traditional success.”
For me, as a foreigner and a homemaker living in Japan, it was both fascinating and heartbreaking to see. Fascinating, because Japan has such a deep cultural emphasis on discipline, order, and collective well-being. Heartbreaking, because within that order, so many individuals feel trapped in a silent cycle of comparison and obligation.
This was when I began to question: what does “success” really mean here? And more importantly, does it actually bring the happiness it promises?
The Weight of Expectations
When I started asking myself why so many people here felt unfulfilled despite “having it all,” I realized the answer wasn’t just about individual choices—it was about the society that quietly shapes those choices. Japan has a long history of valuing harmony, discipline, and perseverance. These qualities are beautiful in many ways. They have created a society that runs with impressive order, where people look out for each other and where traditions are deeply respected. But the flip side is that expectations become heavy, and stepping away from the “normal path” can feel almost impossible.
Take education, for example. From the time children are very young, there’s a strong emphasis on academic achievement. Parents invest not just money but enormous emotional energy into preparing their kids for competitive exams. Cram schools (juku) are everywhere, and it’s common for even elementary school students to spend late evenings in extra lessons. As a mother, I sometimes feel conflicted watching this. On one hand, I admire the dedication and the strong work ethic. On the other, I see how much pressure it puts on children—and by extension, on parents. If your child doesn’t get into a “good school,” people might quietly assume you’ve failed as a mother. That silent judgment can sting.
The workplace culture mirrors this. The traditional model of lifetime employment (終身雇用, shūshin koyō) may not be as strong as it once was, but the mindset lingers. Many men still work incredibly long hours, sacrificing family time for their careers. Companies reward loyalty and endurance, not necessarily innovation or personal balance. For women, the picture is even more complicated. A lot of mothers I’ve met feel torn between wanting to continue their professional careers and feeling pressure to become full-time homemakers once they have children. And if they choose the latter, they sometimes feel invisible—“just a housewife,” even though running a household is incredibly demanding.
One of my Japanese mom friends told me, “When I quit my job to raise my daughter, people said, ‘You’re lucky you can stay home.’ But I didn’t feel lucky. I felt like I had lost my identity.” Another mother shared the opposite: “I went back to work after maternity leave, and some people quietly judged me for not being a ‘good mom.’ Either way, you can’t win.”
And then, of course, there’s social media. I think this is a universal issue, but in Japan it has its own flavor. Platforms like Instagram and LINE are full of curated images of family outings, bento boxes that look like works of art, spotless homes, and children dressed in matching outfits. These pictures are beautiful, but they also fuel comparison. I’ve caught myself scrolling late at night, looking at other moms’ posts and feeling like I wasn’t doing enough. My bento doesn’t look like that. My apartment isn’t that stylish. My weekends aren’t that exciting. Even though I know these photos are just highlights, the pressure feels real.
What struck me most was how rarely people talk openly about these struggles. In casual conversation, everyone puts on a cheerful face. “Things are fine, thank you,” is the standard answer, even when things aren’t fine. There’s a cultural tendency to avoid burdening others with your problems, which is kind and considerate—but it also means that many people suffer silently, believing they are alone in their dissatisfaction.
I’ll never forget a neighborhood event where I was chatting with a group of moms. On the surface, the conversation was about after-school activities and upcoming school festivals. But one woman suddenly admitted, in a quiet voice, “Sometimes I feel like I’m running in a race I never wanted to join.” The others fell silent, then one after another began to nod. That moment revealed what I had sensed all along: behind the polished surface, so many people carry a hidden exhaustion.
The more I observed, the more I realized this wasn’t about individuals failing to be happy. It was about a system of values—money, status, possessions, appearances—that no longer fit the reality of people’s lives. Yet because these values are so deeply woven into the culture, they’re hard to question. And if you dare to question them, you risk being seen as strange, ungrateful, or even lazy.
For me, as a foreigner, I sometimes feel like I stand at the edge of this system. I’m close enough to see its effects, but far enough to notice its cracks. That distance gives me perspective, but it doesn’t make me immune. I’ve felt the pull to compare myself, to measure my worth by the same outdated metrics. And each time, I’ve had to stop and remind myself: this is a mirage.
A Shift in Perspective
For a long time, I thought the quiet dissatisfaction I observed around me was just the way life worked here. Work hard, achieve stability, suppress complaints—that was the rhythm. But over time, I started noticing small cracks in the system, small acts of rebellion that gave me hope. People were beginning to question whether the “mirage of success” was really worth chasing.
One of my first eye-opening moments came from a friend who had recently quit her corporate job. In Japan, resigning from a stable company—especially in your 30s—is often seen as reckless. But she told me, “I realized I was spending more time with my boss than with my son. That didn’t make sense to me anymore.” Instead, she started her own small online business, selling handmade crafts. The income wasn’t nearly as high as her salary before, but the joy in her eyes was undeniable. “I finally feel like my life belongs to me,” she said. That struck me. For her, success had shifted from external validation to internal fulfillment.
I also met a young couple in my neighborhood who made an unconventional choice: they moved out of Tokyo to a rural town in Nagano. “We were tired of the race,” they explained. “The commute, the expenses, the constant pressure to keep up—it was draining us.” Now they live in a modest house surrounded by mountains, growing some of their own food and working remotely. When I visited them, their lifestyle looked simple compared to city standards, but the peace in their daily rhythm spoke volumes. They had traded status for serenity, and they didn’t regret it.
Even among mothers, I’ve noticed a quiet movement toward redefining success. Instead of competing over perfect bento boxes or kids’ extracurricular achievements, some moms are starting to emphasize mental health, creativity, and family connection. One friend told me she stopped making elaborate character lunches for her kids, despite the unspoken competition among moms at her school. “I realized my child just wants to eat something tasty and be with me. That’s enough.” She laughed when she said it, but I could sense the relief in her decision.
And then there’s me. As a foreigner living in Japan, I used to measure myself against these same standards: Was my home neat enough? Were my kids’ school supplies perfectly labeled? Did I fit the image of the “ideal Japanese mother”? The more I tried, the more exhausted I became. Eventually, I had to ask myself—why am I trying to play a game I didn’t sign up for?
The turning point came one afternoon when I was folding laundry, scrolling through Instagram on my phone. I saw another mom’s post of a picture-perfect living room, and I felt that familiar sting of comparison. But then I caught a glimpse of my own daughter giggling as she danced around the room in mismatched socks, our cluttered toys scattered everywhere. In that moment, I realized—this is my success. Not the spotless home, not the Instagram-worthy image, but the joy of seeing my child happy and carefree.
This personal shift didn’t happen overnight. It was a slow process of peeling away expectations—both from society and from myself. And honestly, it’s still ongoing. I sometimes slip back into comparison, but I’ve learned to notice it and gently redirect myself. Success, for me now, isn’t about possessions or appearances. It’s about connection, peace, and authenticity.
The beautiful thing is that more and more people in Japan seem to be arriving at similar realizations. There’s growing interest in concepts like ikigai (生き甲斐, “reason for being”), minimalism, and work-life balance. Young people are more willing to experiment with nontraditional paths—freelancing, creative work, side hustles, or simply choosing to prioritize happiness over income. It’s not a revolution yet, but it feels like a quiet awakening.
I think this awakening matters not just for Japan, but for anyone, anywhere. Because the mirage of traditional success—money, status, possessions—isn’t unique to this country. It’s global. What makes Japan such a striking example is how strongly these values are woven into the culture, and how brave it feels when someone dares to step outside of them.
Every time I hear someone say, “I chose a different path, and I’m happier for it,” I feel encouraged. It reminds me that even in a society that prizes conformity, individuals can rewrite the script. And maybe, little by little, that will shift the collective definition of success too.
Redefining What Truly Matters
As I look back on my journey—living in Japan, observing the pressures of traditional success, and experiencing my own battles with comparison—I’ve come to a simple but powerful realization: success isn’t something society can define for me. It’s something I must define for myself.
In Japan, the narrative of success has long been tied to stability, appearances, and social approval. For decades, this narrative kept the country running smoothly. People worked hard, families stayed within predictable roles, and achievements were visible, measurable, and praised. But beneath that order, cracks appeared—mental health struggles, loneliness, a sense of emptiness that no paycheck or title could fix.
And honestly, isn’t this something many of us experience no matter where we live? Whether in Tokyo, New York, or London, the world often tells us: Earn more. Own more. Show more. But more doesn’t always mean better. Sometimes more just means heavier.
Living in Japan taught me this lesson in a very personal way. As a homemaker, I sometimes felt invisible in a society that prized career achievements. As a foreigner, I felt the sting of being “different,” never quite fitting the mold. And as a mother, I felt the endless comparison—bento boxes, school activities, even how my child performed at sports day. For a while, I tried to keep up. I thought if I just did everything right, I’d feel secure. But instead, I felt drained.
The turning point was realizing that the script wasn’t written for me—and I didn’t need to follow it. My success could look different. It could be as simple as seeing my daughter laugh, as ordinary as having dinner together without anyone rushing off to work, as fulfilling as writing this blog and connecting with readers across the world.
And that’s the message I want to leave with you, wherever you are reading this from. The mirage of traditional success—whether it’s in Japan, or in your own country—is just that: a mirage. It looks shiny from a distance, but when you reach for it, it slips through your fingers. Real success is quieter, softer, and often invisible to outsiders. It’s the peace you feel when you know you’re living in alignment with your values. It’s the joy of meaningful relationships, the courage to choose rest over hustle, the strength to say “no” when society expects a “yes.”
One of my Japanese neighbors once told me, “I used to think success was about being admired. Now I think it’s about being at peace with myself.” That wisdom has stayed with me. It’s a reminder that the metrics of success are changing, even here in a culture that has been so tied to tradition. And if they can change here, they can change anywhere.
So maybe the real challenge isn’t to chase the mirage, but to step off the path altogether. To pause, to ask ourselves: What do I really want my life to feel like? Not what it should look like, not what others expect, but what feels true.
For me, that answer keeps evolving. Some days, success is a quiet morning with tea before the house wakes up. Other days, it’s the courage to share my story with you. And maybe tomorrow, it will be something else. But the beauty is—I get to decide. And so do you.
Final Thoughts
If you find yourself chasing after the next achievement and still feeling empty, maybe it’s time to ask whether you’re chasing a mirage. Because happiness isn’t hiding at the finish line of society’s race. It’s here, in the small, imperfect, ordinary moments we often overlook.
In the end, success isn’t about money, status, or possessions. It’s about freedom. The freedom to choose your path, to honor your own pace, and to build a life that feels like yours.
And perhaps, just perhaps, that’s the lesson Japan has given me—not through its perfection, but through its contradictions. That true success isn’t what you can show to the world. It’s what you can feel in your heart when the world is quiet.
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