The Quiet Becoming of a Life Abroad

There is no grand drumroll when your life changes. No confetti falls from the ceiling the first time you realize you’re no longer homesick, just… home. When we moved to Japan decades ago, there was no master plan or five-year roadmap, no Pinterest board labeled “Our Life in Tokyo.” There was just a suitcase (each), a camera bag that weighed more than our dreams (filled with rolls and rolls of film!), and a sense of wild, inexplicable certainty that we were meant to build something here.

This blog post isn’t about the thrill of Tokyo’s skyline or the cinematic pull of cherry blossom season (although, yes, it gets us every time). It’s about the quieter stuff. The in-between moments. The ones no one posts on Instagram. The almost invisible transformation that takes place when you stop surviving and start becoming. Not overnight, but slowly. Quietly. Day by day, noodle bowl by noodle bowl, misunderstanding by gentle learning. This is what it means to live a life abroad.

And spoiler alert: it’s not about being strong. Not in the way people imagine.

The Myth of Strength (and the Reality of Softness)

When we first arrived, we thought we had to be warriors. Resilient. Hustling. That if we didn’t get everything right… language, culture, business, etiquette… we didn’t belong. We carried our ambition like armor and tried to outpace the homesickness with hard work.

But it was never strength that saved us. It was softness.

It was the old woman at the train station who showed us how to use the ticket machine without speaking a word.

It was the konbini clerk who laughed softly when we handed over our coins instead of placing them in the tray for the 100th time.

It was the friends who became family, even when our Japanese was barely passable and our hearts felt far from steady.

And it was each other. Two people, in love with love and storytelling, trying to figure out how to build a business that felt as intimate as our own relationship. One that centered emotion, connection, and the reverence of small moments.

The Business That Bloomed Between Goodbyes

Running 37 Frames is not for the faint of heart. We joke (because if we don’t laugh, we’ll cry) that it’s not a job… it’s a lifestyle. And that lifestyle means a thousand hellos and even more goodbyes.

You say goodbye to family at airports, promising “next time” without knowing when that will be. You wave goodbye to couples after the most intimate, joy-filled days of their lives. You hug assistants, planners, florists … people you met that morning but somehow feel tethered to for life.

And then there are the expat goodbyes. The ones that cut just as deeply. Because expat life gives you an intense circle. Friends who become family, people who understand the in-betweenness of it all. And then job postings shift, kids’ schooling changes, and suddenly they’re gone. Your world rearranges, and your heart breaks all over again.

There was a time in Tokyo when Tracey’s best friend from high school was posted here. Those were golden years. A home within a home. Her kids are our goddaughters, and when they left for their next posting, we never thought we’d recover. Expat life is full of those chapters. Full of those heartbreaks.

But we came to realise that the goodbyes aren’t an ending. They’re proof of connection. Of giving your all. Of being present. And of choosing this life … with its ache and its beauty … again and again.

Because every goodbye is also a reminder: you loved fully, you showed up, and you’ll carry that piece of someone with you. And every time it happens, you become a little more you.

The Kindness Japan Taught Us

We didn’t come to Japan expecting to be schooled in kindness. But oh, how it showed us.

There’s a gentleness woven into the fabric of everyday life here. In the bow of the barista as you leave. In the silent choreography of a train ride. In the neighbor who places an umbrella outside your door when the sky forgets its manners.

That gentleness seeped into us.

It made us better listeners. Better storytellers. Better partners. It slowed us down just enough to notice the light hitting the tatami in the late afternoon. To hear the quiet “ganbatte” in a stranger’s glance. To offer ourselves the same grace we give our couples.

Because here’s the thing: living abroad will humble you. And that humility makes room for something softer than confidence. Something closer to compassion.

The Dance Between Identity and Belonging

There were days early on when we didn’t feel like we belonged anywhere. We were too foreign here, too changed to go back. Our Japanese wasn’t perfect. Our friends were scattered across what felt like a million time zones. We missed attending our families’ events and milestones and we missed the smell of home after a summer storm.

But something shifted over time.

Japan didn’t ask us to be perfect. It asked us to show up. To try.

And in return, it offered us community. Purpose. Seasons that mirror emotion. Rituals that ground. Streets that feel like old friends. A language that, while still complicated, now carries a thousand memories in each syllable.

And somehow, amidst all that, we found a deeper version of ourselves.

The Quiet Becoming

No one talks about how becoming is quiet. It doesn’t come with fireworks. It looks like knowing where to find the best melonpan in your neighborhood. It’s recognizing the sound of summer cicadas and not mistaking it for a siren anymore. It’s saying “otsukaresama deshita” after a wedding and meaning it with your whole soul.

It’s the way you look at each other on a plane ride home from an epic celebration and know… without words… that you did something meaningful.

It’s folding kimonos and memories. It’s uploading the last photo of the night and feeling the weight of a legacy captured. It’s sitting with a couple in the mountains of Kosuge, in the rain, and knowing you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

It’s not loud. But it’s everything.

Choosing This Life

There’s no glamour in the daily grind. Deadlines still chase us. Jet lag still fogs the brain. Emails still ping at 2 a.m. But every single day, we choose this life.

We choose it for the love stories that keep us believing. We choose it for the families that become extended arms of our own. We choose it for the landscapes that take our breath away, and the quiet hotel rooms where we finally exhale.

We choose it for the us we’ve become here.

The ones who know how to hold a camera steady during a typhoon and still find beauty in the blur. The ones who know the weight of capturing legacy. The ones who don’t run from the hard parts because we’ve learned how to hold space for them, too.

And the ones who can read a timeline like second nature. Who can soothe a room full of jet-lagged guests, pivot an entire dinner service when the skies open, and still keep the day flowing with grace. The planners who know when to step in, when to step back, and how to make even the most complex celebration feel effortless.

To Our Fellow Dreamers

If you’re reading this and you’re somewhere in your own becoming… this is your permission to slow down. To notice the softness. To trust the process (even if it’s held together with duct tape and late-night kombini snacks).

You’re allowed to be in the middle of it. You’re allowed to be grateful and still unsure. You’re allowed to build something beautiful, even if it doesn’t look like anyone else’s version of success.

Because the quiet becoming? It’s real. It’s brave. And it’s the most honest kind of transformation we know.

And if it leads you to a mountaintop wedding in Japan, a love story in Kyoto, or simply a moment of stillness on your own journey… you’ll know.

You’ve arrived. Not at a destination. But at yourself.

Final Reflection

I love the extraordinary life we’ve created for ourselves here. That was always the dream. Not simply to run a successful business, or to chase something as vague as happiness. Our goal was always bigger, and also simpler: to live an extraordinary life. Whatever form that might take.

Extraordinary looks different to everyone. For us, it has meant building a home in an exotic place, filling it with stories, people, and experiences that continue to shape us. And while we’ve come so close to that dream, we also know there’s still so much more waiting. More places to go, more stories to tell.

And always more ways to keep becoming.