May - June 2026

Overwhelming! At the same time, I feel excited to talk about a traditional art in Japan, yet I hardly know where to begin. So please bear with me. Let us talk about the Japanese kimono. Yes, it is an obvious and common topic of interest when living in Japan. And yet, how much do we really know about this fascinating aspect of Japanese culture?

Its origins and history. The meanings and symbols embedded in the way it is worn. The fabrics and dyeing processes. The weaving industry and the artisans behind it. The different types and their uses. The parts of the kimono, the proper way of dressing, and the appropriateness of each style. The whens and hows, and the quiet mysticism surrounding it all.

My deep interest in kimono began the moment I first stepped onto Japanese soil. The month of May holds special meaning for me. It was during this same month that Hiroshi and I, together with our toddlers, first arrived in Japan to live permanently and raise our growing family within this culture.

On that flight, I wanted to remember everything. Looking back, it was a smooth touchdown despite some turbulence along the way. Upon landing, I quickly approached one of the cabin attendants and asked if my children could meet the pilot, to mark the moment in a simple but meaningful way. The captain went beyond my expectations. He gave each child a firm handshake and presented them with a certificate of the flight, signed and handed personally, as members of the cabin crew smiled warmly and applauded. It was unforgettable.

That moment encouraged me to make a more personal request to my husband. I asked if I might be allowed to experience wearing a Japanese kimono, as a way of sealing my entry into, and acceptance of, my adoptive country.

Within just a few months of our arrival, my wish came true. I wore my very first kimono, a gorgeous houmongi, a type worn for formal occasions.

What began as a desire to highlight family events by wearing kimono, so that I could remember them more vividly, soon became a passion. Wearing kimono became our family’s way of marking milestones, much like many Japanese families do.

My firstborn, who was five when we arrived, wore his first kimono that November for the Shichi Go San celebration. During this occasion, five year old boys are brought to a shrine to receive blessings for their growth as they prepare to formally begin school life, one of life’s most important milestones.

While wearing kimono is uniquely Japanese and deeply rooted in the country’s culture, history, and identity, the Japanese often feel delighted when people from other countries embrace it. For me, wearing a kimono is an artistic expression, an outward manifestation of inner emotions waiting to be shared.

Putting on a kimono, especially when assisted by a trained and certified dresser, is an intricate and disciplined art. It is meticulous, exacting, and deeply symbolic. The process itself feels almost meditative. As each layer is carefully placed, one becomes reflective and aware of inner thoughts and emotions. Perhaps that is why, every time I wear a kimono, the day becomes etched in my memory. It becomes something I carry clearly and vividly in both heart and mind.

There are differing opinions in Japan about the role of kimono today. On one hand are those who believe that traditional practices, especially the wearing of kimono, must be preserved and passed on to future generations in their original form. On the other hand, many younger people, from millennials to Gen Z, feel that the traditional way of wearing kimono is expensive and restrictive, and that it could benefit from modernization and flexibility.

Fast forward thirty years.

This month, as our family gathered to celebrate Hiroshi’s birthday, Children’s Day, and Golden Week, our conversation drifted toward the upcoming Shichi Go San in November. It will soon be time for two of our grandchildren to wear kimono.

Almost unconsciously, our conversation turned into reminiscing. We laughed and felt both joy and nostalgia as we recalled the days we brought our children to the shrine, looking so beautiful, so confident, and so uniquely themselves. They remembered the shops where we chose their kimono, who dressed them, how they felt about their hair, which friends attended their Coming of Age ceremonies, and the photo studios we visited.

And then it became clear to me.

What stays with them will not simply be the kimono.

It will be how they were made to feel, unique, special, and celebrated.
It will be the love they experienced.
It will be the memory of a family that showed up, again and again, to mark life’s moments together.

I’ve Always Thought Math Was Invented by Extraterrestrial Beings

Spring is here!!!

Isn’t it amazing how the word spring automatically brings to mind the obvious—sakura in full bloom, flowers of every kind opening up, and nature coming alive again after the gray stillness of winter? It refreshes us, not just physically, but awakens the soul, heart, and mind from their long slumber.

As I was preparing to write about the most expected topic—sakura (of course!)—something else caught my attention and made me change direction. After all, March is about so much more.

It is the season of graduation and entrance exams. A time of intense Juken Jigoku (Exam Hell) and Nyugaku Shiken. A time when dreams come true—or sometimes fall apart.

As a parent of three children, I have witnessed this stressful cycle again and again. Endless studying. Cram school routines. Accepting schools that may not be your first choice, but are dictated by your scores. It is a system where pressure runs high, patience is tested, and finances are stretched.

These exams, while central to the Japanese education system, often feel like they unfairly dictate a child’s future.

Across Japan—especially in the Tokyo area—students undergo mock exams and national ranking tests from early February to mid-March. These are high-stakes competitions that determine placement, school ranking, and academic standing. And yes, Japan consistently ranks among the top in the world in mathematics, reading, and science.

Having worked for nearly three decades in the Japanese public school system, I have also seen another side of this reality.

I have supported children from different countries—helping them navigate language barriers and emotional challenges. Unfortunately, the system still provides very limited support. Each child is given only about 15 sessions of basic language assistance funded by the government. After that, they are expected to manage on their own.

Families are left to figure things out—enrolling their children in language schools, hiring tutors, or simply hoping they will adapt. Imagine being a child who barely understands the language, struggling to follow lessons, connect with classmates, or even answer a simple quiz.

Now imagine facing entrance exams under those conditions.

It is overwhelming. It is heartbreaking.

So you can imagine my shock when I came across a social media post about a Filipino high school student—Maxie—who ranked Number 1 in Mathematics out of 22,178 examinees nationwide.

Without hesitation, I reached out to his mother and asked her to share his story for Jeepney Press. What you are about to read is not just a success story—it is a powerful testament to resilience.

March 15, 2026

From Maxie’s Mom:

Maxie and the Math That Made “Gurgle” (Google) Apologize

My third son was born in Japan with severe asthma. During his first year, the hospital felt like our second home. If he went two weeks without an attack, that was already a miracle.

When he turned one, we brought him to the Philippines. He returned to Japan at age six—just one year before starting first grade.

He didn’t speak Japanese.

That alone was enough to make any child feel lost. He would ask me questions like,
“Mom, why can’t my classmates speak English?”
“Why can’t I speak Japanese?”

I would always answer,
“Don’t worry. Once you learn Japanese, you might forget how to speak English.”

For a six-year-old, that seemed convincing enough.

Ironically, language was actually his strength. He spoke Ilonggo and English fluently and understood Tagalog. But math? That was a completely different story.

Before he even started school, a psychiatrist suggested placing him in a special class, saying something seemed “mentally wrong.” My husband refused immediately. Our son wasn’t slow—he was simply adjusting to a new language and environment.

At home, I called him Maxie. His dad called him John. His brothers called him Manny. Somehow, he managed to answer to all of them without confusion!

In second grade, I tried teaching him basic math. It was… traumatic—for both of us.

Carrying numbers confused him. Borrowing numbers terrified him. Multiplication meant counting on fingers. Division—with remainders—made him cry.

He would often turn to “Gurgle” (his version of Google) for help. But even Google, it seemed, would sometimes “apologize” and give up on him.

His math scores were consistently impressive… if you read them from the bottom up.

Seven years later, after enrolling him in a cram school (partly to save our sanity), something incredible happened.

Out of 22,178 students across Japan, he ranked Number 1 in Math in a national exam.

When he saw the result, he was happy—but calm. Not overwhelmed. Not shocked.

Just quietly certain that this was only the beginning.

Life is about not giving up, even when things feel impossible.

His father always believed in him. He called him the “dark horse” of the family, even though his older brothers were already high achievers.

As for me, I simply watch—quietly grateful—witnessing his journey in this grand chess game called life.

His asthma didn’t stop him.
His many names didn’t confuse him.
His lack of Japanese didn’t break him.
Even the numbers he once feared eventually surrendered.

At such a young age, he has already proven something powerful:

He is a survivor.

For a Filipino in a foreign land, success is never just luck—it is built on courage, resilience, and hard work.

(Written by Maxie’s Mom, Stellar Flare)

My deepest gratitude to Stellar Flare for sharing this inspiring story.

January - February 2026

Celebrating Christmas and New Year in Tokyo

What happens when you have no plans for the holidays? You stay home and let life go on as usual, right? But Christmas is such a joyful season that you cannot help but let its glittery surprises, traditions, and even subtle changes sweep you off your feet.

Simbang Gabi (Dawn Masses) is a beloved Filipino Christmas tradition, deeply rooted in our faith and culture. It is a nine-day novena that culminates on Christmas Eve, preparing our hearts to celebrate the birth of Jesus. Growing up, children had different reasons for tagging along with their parents or lolas to attend Simbang Gabi. I asked friends what motivated them, and the answers were all too relatable: seeing a crush who served as an altar server, meeting barkadas after Mass to hang out, or enjoying warm, mouthwatering delicacies like bibingka, puto bumbong, and other treats that made for a hearty breakfast. Somewhere along the way, it seems we all momentarily forgot the deeper “why” of attending Simbang Gabi.

Simbang Gabi in Tokyo is a relatively new experience, having started only a few years ago. The most popular celebrations, where churches are filled to the brim with Filipinos, are held at Akabane and Meguro Churches. I had never attended one before, partly due to distance and partly because the Masses are usually held at night to accommodate Filipinos coming from work for nine consecutive days.

As luck would have it, in 2025, St. Ignatius Church offered daily dawn Masses at 6:45 a.m., attended by a small and intimate group. Lo and behold, for the first time in years, I was able to relive that part of myself who used to tag along with my Lola Sayong to early morning Masses in my hometown of Iloilo—this time here and now, in sophisticated, concrete, wintery metropolitan Tokyo. There was no bibingka, but there was a beautiful twist. After each Mass, the small group gathered to relive childhood memories by sharing champorado, pasta, Indian dishes—mostly prepared by Fr. Jody—and other food brought by everyone. It became a warm and generous “breaking of the bread,” filled with fellowship and the true spirit of Christmas. I mark it as one of the most meaningful Christmases I have ever experienced in Japan.

Christmas and Family. What do you do when you have no plans for Christmas Day, and family suddenly shows up right at your doorstep? You throw an instant Christmas party by the campsite along the beautiful Tamagawa River. Rummage through the refrigerator for whatever can be cooked over charcoal, pack the tent and tools, hook everything onto a ten-speed bicycle, let the kids enjoy a short joyride along the Tamagawa Line, and hike to the spot. It became an instant camping experience they will never forget. Of course, hindi kumpleto ’yan without going to church to join our community in prayer and celebration. Those three days were filled with joyful activities and a truly memorable family Christmas.

A New Year followed—quiet, hopeful, and filled with renewed love and connectedness. These Christmas and New Year celebrations reminded me of what we hold most dear: family, friendship, faith, shared beliefs, and the hard work that binds us together.