The In-Between: Mother and Artist
West Japan (More or Less) Travel Notes — Part IV
The Brink Mothers Stand On
West Japan (More or Less) Travel Notes — Part IV
There was a time when getting lost did not frighten me.
I could afford detours — mental ones, physical ones — and even savor them.
But something shifted.
Traveling across Japan with a two-year-old, I found myself measuring everything in minutes, transfers, and margins of error. There was no room left for wandering.
And yet, somewhere between central Honshu and the coastlines of two different seas, I encountered an unexpected question:
Why had I believed that pushing myself to the brink was the only acceptable way to live?
The In-Between: Mother and Artist
West Japan (More or Less) Travel Notes — Part IV
Previous:
Part III — The Luggage
https://medium.com/@ekotumi/the-in-between-mother-and-artist-west-japan-more-or-less-travel-notes-part-iii-the-luggage-3232cbb5c967
***
The most daunting challenge of this tour was simple:
there was no one to watch Mini-Tumi during my talks.
But there was another, equally formidable obstacle:
the sheer physical toll of the travel itself.
Gifu, Fukui, Hiroshima.
All in one day.
If the route had been more or less a straight line from departure to destination, it might have been manageable.
But this meant traveling from central Honshu to the Japan Sea side — and then, on the very same day, heading down to the Seto Inland Sea.
For anyone familiar with Japan, this is the kind of itinerary that prompts an instinctive
“Wait — what?” or “Oh no.”
Google Maps informed me that each leg would take three and a half to four hours.
In other words, seven and a half hours of travel packed into a single day.
And the day before that, we had already spent three hours traveling from Tokyo to Gifu
(the previous post was about that journey).
If this were a family trip, I would have insisted on staying somewhere overnight.
But this is work.
Complaining is not an option.
Well, I certainly complained a little — but still.
This is not my tour,
and certainly not a tour meant for Mini-Tumi.
I am bringing Mini-Tumi along on a work tour I was invited to join.
Which means that no matter how difficult it becomes, there is no choice but to do it.
As we began, I found myself remembering my pre-parenthood tours abroad:
the countless times I got lost while pretending I knew where I was going;
the ache in my arms from hauling two heavy suitcases;
the near tears as I dragged everything up long staircases when elevators were nowhere to be found;
the frantic sprints to make connections, the cold sweat, the times I nearly missed trains — and the times I actually did.
I often did not fully understand the route,
and I could rarely catch the announcements.
Long-distance trains frequently stopped without explanation and arrived late.
Once, a train changed its final destination midway, and I had to backtrack entirely.
If it were leisure travel, I could simply shrug, adjust the plan,
and even enjoy the detour.
But with work, you cannot “arrive whenever.”
When you have to be at a specific place at a specific time,
uncertainty becomes terror.
Traveling for work in unfamiliar places scares me.
Not only abroad.
Even in Japan, it unsettles me.
And now, I was adding a baby on my chest.
But then — what happened?
What, exactly, unfolded?
When the lid was finally lifted, what I found was a harsh kind of paradise.
Yes, the travel was grueling. We were constantly chasing the clock, running.
There wasn’t even time to wait for elevators; we charged up staircases, breathless.
And yet, for me, this movement became an unprecedented kind of paradise.
Make no mistake, the travel was grueling.
We were always racing the clock.
There was no time to wait for elevators;
we charged up staircases, breathless.
And yet, somehow, it was paradise.
Let me introduce the team I met in Gifu.
First, the creative director — a longtime colleague, tall as a tree, adored by Mini-Tumi.
Then Agne, the author of the book central to this project — this was our first meeting.
And finally, the interpreter translating from Lithuanian to English, himself a poet — I shall simply call him “the Poet.”
We met for the first time that day as well.
All of them, without being asked, took turns carrying my bags.
Let me clarify something:
They were the guests.
In Japan, we have the concept of omotenashi — hospitality.
When people come from abroad, and when they are guests, it is we who should be carrying their bags.
We who should be making things smooth for them.
But instead, the opposite happened.
The guests — these three — carried my luggage, and sometimes even Mini-Tumi herself.
It stunned me.
Before gratitude could form, the first emotion that rose was:
“Wait… really? Is this allowed? Are you sure?”
For someone who has always traveled alone,
carrying everything — no matter how heavy,
even with a child strapped to me — was simply normal.
At least until the very edge of my limits,
I believed that carrying everything myself was simply how it was done.
After all, I chose what to pack.
After all, I chose to give birth.
That’s how it is, right?
Balancing parenting with everything else means enduring it all — right?
But it wasn’t like that at all.
The realization struck me like a blow from an iron dumbbell.
During the many transfers, one moment stays with me.
We were getting out of a taxi.
The lanky, very tall director stepped out of the taxi first and asked,
“Do you need any help?”
Without thinking, I said,
“Oh — I’m fine, no worries.”
Then I tried to lift the Boston bag stuffed with my laptop,
printed scripts, Mini-Tumi’s toys,
two sets of drinks, and a full diaper kit —
all while holding Mini-Tumi.
He reached for the bag and said,
“Hey. Say you need help.”
Was “help” really a word I was allowed to say so lightly?
Was it acceptable to ask for a hand without first pushing myself to the point of tears and exhaustion?
In that instant, the iron helmet of assumptions I had been wearing was shattered
by a single swing of his words — like an iron dumbbell crashing down.
I don’t know about other countries,
but mothers in Japan tend to push themselves to their limits.
Stoically, desperately, silently.
As if they must endure hardship to avoid criticism,
smiling awkwardly, bowing, apologizing with every step —
because doing so makes life move more smoothly.
In Japan, especially for mothers, endurance has long been treated as an unspoken virtue — though in recent years, that belief has begun, slowly and unevenly, to loosen. Even so, asking for help can feel like a quiet failure, one that rarely gets named aloud.
Why couldn’t I ask for help?
Why did I believe I had to do everything myself?
Why did I feel I had to push until I was nearly collapsing?
Because I chose to give birth?
When did “personal responsibility” become something applied to child-rearing?
Why have we become so bad at saying “Help me”?
Children are meant to be raised by a community.
There are so many people willing to help if only we say the words.
And yet, it feels as though unless we push ourselves to our breaking point —
unless we accept the full brutality of it —
we are not permitted to be both parents and artists.
But we are allowed to ask for help before we reach the brink.
Even if someone refuses.
Even if they call it selfishness or weakness.
We are still allowed to say it.
When the very tall director shattered that iron helmet of mine, I laughed weakly.
Inside, I collapsed.
I wept for the version of myself who had worn that helmet for so long.
And I wept — quietly, without permission — for all the mothers who have pushed themselves to the brink.
—
This essay is part of the series
“The In-Between: Mother and Artist.”
Previous:
Part III — The Luggage
https://medium.com/@ekotumi/the-in-between-mother-and-artist-west-japan-more-or-less-travel-notes-part-iii-the-luggage-3232cbb5c967
Next:
Part V — How Long Can a Two-Year-Old Sit Still?
https://medium.com/@ekotumi/the-in-between-mother-and-artist-how-long-can-a-two-year-old-sit-still-c8f16a52b45c
