When I first became a mother in Japan, I didn’t realize that I was still carrying a heavy “playbook” of what success was supposed to look like. It wasn’t written by me—it was written by my parents, my teachers, and even the TV shows I grew up watching. Maybe you know that feeling too, even if you live on the other side of the world. We grow up surrounded by subtle (and sometimes loud) voices that tell us:
This is what a good life looks like. This is what a successful person does. This is who you should become.
In Japan, those voices can be especially strong. Growing up, I often heard that doing well in school, getting into a good university, landing a stable job, and eventually raising a family in a neat little house was the path everyone should follow. It wasn’t that anyone forced me directly—but the air itself seemed to carry these expectations. You didn’t need to be told; you just breathed them in.
As a teenager, I remember staying up late at night studying for exams, not because I wanted to learn, but because I believed my worth depended on those test scores. My parents praised me when I got good grades, and I felt ashamed when I didn’t. Teachers reinforced it, too—success was about ranking high, not about discovering what you loved. And of course, the media showed endless stories of “successful” people: corporate workers in suits, celebrities who seemed perfect, families smiling in spotless homes. Without noticing, I internalized all of it.
But life has a way of testing the “rules” you think you must follow. After marriage, I became a stay-at-home mom. Suddenly, the playbook I had memorized didn’t fit anymore. I wasn’t climbing a career ladder. I wasn’t achieving in ways that could be measured by test scores or salaries. At first, I felt lost. Was I still “successful” if I spent my days cooking, cleaning, and taking my kids to the park? There was no gold star for folding laundry, no grade for comforting a crying child.
This inner conflict is what I want to share with you, because I think it’s not just a Japanese story. Whether you live in America, Europe, or elsewhere, you probably have your own version of this inherited playbook. Maybe it says you must always be busy, or that your worth comes from your productivity, or that money is the ultimate measure of success. These are powerful beliefs that shape how we live—but the truth is, many of them are borrowed. We didn’t write them ourselves.
And that’s where the idea of “unlearning” comes in. Before we can create a definition of success that feels real and personal, we need to notice the invisible rules we’ve been following. For me, that process started with uncomfortable questions:
- Why do I feel guilty when I take a break, even though no one is judging me?
- Why do I think raising children is less valuable than working in an office?
- Why do I compare my life to what I see on social media, even when I know it’s not the full picture?
These questions weren’t easy. They shook the foundation of what I thought I knew. But they also opened a door. By simply acknowledging that these old definitions of success weren’t truly mine, I began to feel a small sense of freedom.
In Japan, there is a word: “yarikirenai”—a feeling of being weighed down by something that doesn’t quite fit, but you keep carrying it because you think you should. For many mothers here, success can feel like that: a burden shaped by tradition, education, and society. Yet by recognizing it, by saying out loud, “Maybe this definition isn’t mine,” you create the first step toward rewriting your own playbook.
This is the beginning of the journey I want to take you on through this series. It’s not about rejecting everything from our past, but about looking closely at the beliefs we inherited and asking, Do they still serve me?
Because sometimes, the most powerful thing we can do is unlearn.
Recognizing the Invisible Rules
When I first started to notice that my definition of success wasn’t truly mine, I didn’t know what to do next. It’s one thing to feel uncomfortable, but it’s another to figure out what to do with that discomfort. At first, I felt like I was betraying the values I had been taught. I remember sitting at the kitchen table, folding laundry, and thinking, “If I don’t follow the rules I grew up with, will I still be a good person? A good mother? A good Japanese woman?”
Those questions didn’t have clear answers. But slowly, I began to realize something important: many of the rules I was following were invisible. They were so deeply ingrained that I didn’t even notice them until I bumped into them. That was the first step in my unlearning journey—recognizing the invisible rules.
The School Voice, The Family Voice, The Media Voice
If I listen closely, I can almost separate the voices in my head.
- The school voice tells me: “Your worth is measured by performance. If you can’t show results, you are failing.”
- The family voice tells me: “Don’t cause trouble. Stay in line. Success means making your parents proud.”
- The media voice tells me: “Look at everyone else’s perfect life. If you don’t match that, you’re behind.”
None of these voices were truly mine. They were borrowed, yet I had allowed them to shape my choices and even my emotions. I realized that identifying these voices was like shining a flashlight in a dark room—you suddenly see what’s been tripping you up.
A Simple Exercise: Naming Your Rules
One of the practices that helped me was writing down my “inherited rules.” It’s simple, but very powerful.
Take a notebook, and on one page write:
- “A successful woman should…”
- “A good mother must…”
- “If I don’t ___, people will think I’m ___.”
Then, just let the answers flow. Don’t censor yourself, even if the rules sound outdated, silly, or harsh. For example, in my notebook I wrote:
- A successful woman should have a stable income.
- A good mother must always put her children first.
- If I don’t keep the house spotless, people will think I’m lazy.
When I read them back, I was shocked. These weren’t my conscious beliefs, but they were running my life in the background. Writing them down was like catching a thief in the act—you finally see what’s been stealing your peace of mind.
Everyday Life as a Mirror
Once I started noticing the rules on paper, I could see them play out in daily life. For example:
- When I felt guilty about resting, I recognized the school voice whispering that productivity equals value.
- When I compared my home to someone’s Instagram post, I caught the media voice telling me I was behind.
- When I hesitated to speak up at a PTA meeting, I noticed the family voice warning me not to stand out.
This awareness didn’t erase the voices, but it gave me space. Instead of reacting automatically, I could pause and ask: “Do I want to obey this rule, or is it time to question it?”
The Power of Questioning
In Japan, we often value harmony over confrontation. Asking questions—even to ourselves—can feel uncomfortable. But I found that the more I practiced, the freer I felt. I didn’t have to fight the rules or destroy them overnight. I just had to question them.
For example, when I heard the inner voice saying, “You must always put your children first,” I asked myself: “Is it true that taking 30 minutes for myself makes me a bad mother? Or could it actually make me a better one?”
When the voice said, “If you don’t earn money, you’re not contributing,” I asked: “Is raising my children not a contribution to society? Isn’t this labor, even if it’s unpaid?”
Each question loosened the grip of the old playbook. It was like pulling out one thread at a time from a tightly woven net. Slowly, I could breathe again.
A Gentle Reminder
I want to pause here and say: this process is not about blaming our families, our schools, or our culture. They gave us these rules because they believed they were necessary for survival and belonging. And in many ways, they did help us. The problem is when those rules become rigid, when they no longer serve us but we keep obeying them out of habit or fear.
Unlearning is not about throwing everything away—it’s about choosing, with awareness, which rules still support the life you want, and which ones you can release.
A Small Practice for You
If you’d like to try this in your own life, here’s a practice:
- Notice the guilt. The next time you feel guilty or anxious, pause and ask, “What rule am I obeying right now?”
- Write it down. Don’t judge it—just capture it.
- Question it. Ask yourself, “Is this rule truly mine? Does it help me live the life I want today?”
- Choose consciously. You may still follow the rule for now, but at least it’s your choice, not an automatic reaction.
For me, even this small practice was revolutionary. It was like taking off a pair of glasses I didn’t know I was wearing, and suddenly seeing the world more clearly.
The Turning Point – Breaking Free from the Rules
When you finally start questioning the invisible rules you’ve been carrying, something surprising happens. At first, you might expect immediate freedom—like opening a window in a stuffy room. And yes, there is a sense of relief. But there’s also something else: confusion, fear, even guilt.
For me, the turning point came in small, ordinary moments.
The First Rebellion: Taking Time for Myself
One afternoon, after a long morning of cleaning and preparing lunch for my kids, I decided not to do the dishes right away. Instead, I made myself a cup of coffee and sat by the window with a book. It sounds like nothing special, right? But in that moment, I felt like I was breaking a sacred rule.
The old voices screamed:
- “A good mother doesn’t waste time while the sink is full!”
- “You should be productive every minute!”
But another voice, quieter but stronger, whispered: “You deserve this moment.”
That day, I chose to listen to the quieter voice. And though the guilt was loud, something inside me softened. I realized that by caring for myself—even in this tiny way—I had more patience and energy for my children later. It was proof that breaking a rule didn’t destroy me; it actually nourished me.
Redefining “Contribution”
Another turning point came when I stopped apologizing for not earning money. In conversations with friends or relatives, I used to say, “I’m just a housewife.” That little word “just” carried so much shame. It implied that what I was doing—raising children, running a household—was less valuable than a paycheck.
But then I asked myself: “Who told me that money is the only measure of contribution?” Certainly not my children, who depend on me every day. Certainly not my husband, who appreciates the invisible labor that keeps our family functioning. The answer, of course, was the old playbook: the one that equates success with visible, measurable results.
One day, instead of saying “I’m just a housewife,” I tried saying:
“I’m raising two kids and managing our home.”
It felt different. Stronger. Truer. And you know what? No one laughed. No one dismissed it. The only person who had been minimizing it all along—was me.
The Liberation of “No”
Perhaps the hardest, but most powerful, rebellion was learning to say “no.” In Japan, harmony is often valued above honesty. Saying yes feels safer, even if it comes at the cost of your well-being. For years, I said yes to extra responsibilities at school meetings, yes to social gatherings I didn’t enjoy, yes to expectations that left me exhausted.
But one day, when another parent asked me to take on yet another task at the PTA, I felt that familiar tightness in my chest. The old rule said: “Good mothers sacrifice for the group.” But my heart said: “You’re already at your limit.”
So I smiled and said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t this time.”
The world didn’t collapse. People didn’t hate me. In fact, a few mothers looked relieved—as if I had given them permission to say no too. That moment was liberating. I realized that by breaking the rule, I wasn’t destroying harmony; I was modeling honesty and self-respect.
The Emotional Rollercoaster
Of course, unlearning isn’t a straight line. Sometimes I felt empowered, other times I felt guilty again. There were days I doubted myself, wondering if I was becoming selfish or lazy. But slowly, I noticed a pattern: every time I challenged a rule, I felt more alive. My days began to feel less like a checklist and more like a life.
Writing a New Story
Little by little, the old playbook began to lose its grip. I wasn’t throwing it away entirely—I still value effort, responsibility, and caring for others. But I was rewriting the story. Success, for me, no longer meant “always productive, always perfect.” It meant balance. It meant listening to my own needs as well as others’. It meant choosing, not just obeying.
This shift also changed how I parent. Instead of teaching my children to chase grades or appearances, I encourage them to explore what makes them curious, what makes them feel alive. I don’t want them to inherit my old rules unquestioned. I want them to write their own playbooks.
A Practice for You: The Gentle “No”
If you want to try this yourself, start small.
- Think of one request or expectation you often say yes to, even though it drains you.
- Next time, pause. Ask yourself: “If I say no, what’s the worst that could happen?”
- If the answer is simply that someone might be mildly disappointed, try saying no.
The first time will feel terrifying. But each time you practice, you’ll realize that your worth doesn’t depend on pleasing everyone.
A New Definition of Success
When I look back now, I can see how far I’ve come from the woman who believed her value depended on grades, money, or how spotless her home looked. The process of unlearning hasn’t been neat or easy—it’s been full of doubts, small rebellions, and quiet victories. But standing here today, I feel lighter. Freer. More myself.
The Joy of Small Successes
One of the biggest changes is that I’ve stopped chasing giant, external signs of success. Instead, I find joy in the small, everyday victories. For example:
- Laughing with my children at dinner, even if the meal is simple.
- Taking a walk and noticing the changing seasons.
- Saying no to something that doesn’t serve me, and yes to something that does.
These may sound ordinary, but to me, they are extraordinary. Because for the first time, I’m measuring success on my own terms, not someone else’s.
Redefining Success as Presence
In the old playbook, success was always somewhere in the future—a goal to be reached, a mountain to climb. But in my new playbook, success is presence. It’s being here, fully, in this moment. When I play with my kids without checking my phone, when I drink tea and actually taste it, when I listen deeply to a friend—those are moments of true success.
This shift has also changed the way I see time. Before, time felt like a race, a constant competition with others. Now, time feels like a gift. A day doesn’t have to be “productive” to be meaningful; it just has to be lived with awareness.
Success as Balance
Another piece of my new definition is balance. Not the kind of balance where you perfectly manage everything, but the kind where you allow yourself to be human. Some days, I give my energy fully to my family. Other days, I carve out space for myself. Both are valid. Both matter.
For too long, I believed that self-care was selfish. Now, I see it as essential. By filling my own cup, I can show up with more love and patience for others. That, too, is success.
Teaching the Next Generation
Perhaps the most meaningful part of this journey is how it shapes the way I raise my children. I don’t want them to inherit a rigid playbook that tells them who they must be. I want them to ask questions, to explore, to define success for themselves.
When my daughter told me she wanted to quit an after-school activity because she didn’t enjoy it, my old instinct was to push her to continue. The old rule said: “Don’t give up. Quitting is failure.” But then I remembered my own journey. Instead of forcing her, I asked, “What would make you feel excited instead?”
Her face lit up as she talked about trying art classes. That moment reminded me: when we free ourselves, we also free the next generation.
Writing Our Own Playbook
So what does my playbook look like now? It’s not a rigid list of rules. It’s more like a collection of gentle reminders:
- Listen inward before looking outward.
- Value presence over perfection.
- Balance giving with receiving.
- Measure success in joy, not in numbers.
- Be brave enough to say no, and kind enough to say yes.
This isn’t a universal formula. It’s mine. And that’s the point. We each deserve to write our own definitions, based on our own values and seasons of life.
An Invitation to You
If you’ve been carrying a heavy playbook too—whether from family, school, culture, or media—I invite you to pause and ask: “What does success mean to me, today?”
Not yesterday. Not ten years ago. Not what society says. But you, here, now.
Your answer might surprise you. Maybe success is starting a business. Maybe it’s resting more. Maybe it’s nurturing your garden, or writing a book, or simply being kind to yourself. Whatever it is, let it be yours.
Closing Thoughts
In Japan, there’s a phrase: “jibun rashiku ikiru”—to live true to yourself. That’s what unlearning the old playbook has given me. It hasn’t made life perfect, but it has made life more authentic. And in that authenticity, I’ve found a kind of peace I never knew before.
So here’s to unlearning. Here’s to rewriting. Here’s to living success—not as something handed down to us, but as something we create, moment by moment, with courage and care.
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