Starting Momo & Co.
― Because I Never Fit the Mold ―
― A Harvest Season ―
In Japan, we live with four distinct seasons — each one carrying its own beauty. We sometimes use these seasons as a metaphor for life.
Mine is entering autumn.
"Autumn of life" might sound like something is winding down. But to me, autumn is a harvest season — when seeds planted in spring, nurtured through summer, are finally ready to be gathered.
So here I am. Starting Momo & Co.
When I was little, I was asked by a teacher what I wanted to be when I grew up. "A person who writes books," I said.
She smiled. "So you want to be a writer?" I felt that wasn't quite right, but I couldn't explain why. So I just went along with it.
She was talking about a profession — a mold. I was talking about the act of writing itself. Now I understand the difference.
Partly because of my family environment, I learnt early on how to pretend I fit the mold — performing the version of myself that adults around me would approve of, would be pleased with. And the tricky part was, I was good at doing so.
As a student, I fit the mold without question. Perhaps the pretending had become so natural that I no longer noticed it. Good grades, perfect attendance, and so on. Despite starting my career in the midst of Japan's "Lost Decades," I was fortunate enough to receive an offer from my first-choice company. I had not a single doubt that my future as an adult would be bright. It never crossed my mind that I would one day struggle with not fitting in.
But reality was different.
Wherever I went, something felt off. I kept searching for "somewhere else" where I might fit perfectly. Eventually, I realised that pretending to fit had reached its limit. Feeling that my soul would suffocate if I stayed as I was, I moved to the UK in my early thirties — drawn to Europe, a place I had dreamt of since childhood.
I still vividly remember my early days in London.
I was walking along the railway near Royal Oak station, where my host family lived. Looking up at a rare blue sky over London, I took a deep breath.
"I'm finally where I'm meant to be."
My English was still far from fluent. I wasn't used to the life there yet. However, I could feel something in my heart becoming lighter.
Shortly after starting my MA at Central Saint Martins, a professor said to me:
"You've experienced different jobs and felt many things. That's exactly why it's meaningful and valuable for someone like you to study Innovation Management."
I cannot describe how much these words saved me.
Life as a postgraduate in a foreign country was far from easy. However, the conviction that "this is where I belong" was a profound shift for me — and it gave me the strength to overcome everything.
In the autumn of 2018, I returned to Japan — not by choice. What was meant to be a temporary visit became permanent, as a combination of family circumstances and the global pandemic took away both the means and the energy to go back.
For a while, I was lost. It took time to let go of who I had been in the UK.
Last year, I took part in a creative project. Talking with people in that world, their words naturally seeped into my heart and mind. The granularity of perception and sensitivity that I inherently possess — something I had sealed away in professional settings for some time. It was as if a precious little box, locked and tucked away deep inside me, made a quiet, gentle sound as it opened.
If there's no mold I can comfortably fit, then why not create it on my own. It took me a long time to reach this mindset.
Momo & Co. is a garden. A place to nurture the experiences I've gathered over the years, and the encounters yet to come. Here, I grow flowers and make nectar.
Sweet nectar will attract bees with a shared sense of taste. My nectar may not appeal to everyone — but I want to tend this garden with care, alongside those who share a similar sensitivity.
And so begins my harvest season.
