Not All Vacations Need a Beach

As a freelance producer, I often find it hard to switch off. Even in free moments, my mind keeps scanning through tasks — upcoming shoots, project timelines, follow-up emails. So when I planned this summer in Tokyo with my family, it naturally became another project to manage — schedules to organize, tasks to tick off. I even thought about squeezing in a solo trip to Hawaii, imagining it might be a chance to reset and recharge.

But this summer turns out to be a very different kind of vacation.

My mother's life changed drastically after a cerebral hemorrhage a year and a half ago. She has since been living in a senior care home. When I come to Tokyo, I adjust my schedule to stay as long as possible and arrange for her to stay at our family apartment with me. My younger sister, who has lived with intellectual and physical disabilities since birth, has been in a care facility since our mother became ill. She returns to Tokyo twice a year — during summer and the winter holidays. When she's home, the three of us — my father passed away seven years ago — spend time together in the apartment. This routine has gradually become our new rhythm. And this summer is the first time we followed it during Tokyo's peak heat.

I carefully crafted a to-do list to make sure my mother and sister would be as comfortable as possible. I planned to add handrails in the bathroom and looked for a compact bed for my mother, whose weakened legs now make it difficult for her to get up and down from a traditional Japanese futon laid directly on the tatami floor. My sister, who is very particular about her favorites, always holds a Kewpie doll head (just the head — don't ask me why, only she knows). So I ordered backups on Amazon, just in case one went missing or broke. Checking off these practical tasks gives me a certain satisfaction — I'm a list person — but what I didn't expect was how my first "Caregiver Camp" would bring a quieter, more profound peace in the unspoken emotional waves of our family life.

I found myself immersed in small, vivid moments: sweating as I helped my mother and sister bathe, then the three of us sharing the cool evening breeze on the balcony, listening to the soft chime of wind bells; seeing my mother, whose dementia had taken away most of her ability to do housework, suddenly stand at the kitchen sink and wash dishes with the same quiet determination she had before her stroke — as if, for a brief moment, she had stepped back into her old self; waking in the middle of the night to the calm of their sleeping faces; feeling my sister — who doesn't speak — surprise me with a sudden kiss on the cheek; and, above all, realizing the quiet joy of the three of us being under the same roof again for the first time in a year.

I won't have a Hawaiian beach or stroll through Parisian streets this summer. Instead, I have the quiet, imperfect privilege of caring for my mother and sister — and with it, countless small joys that no destination could offer. It's a cliché, but happiness often hides in the simplest moments. I believe these small joys will quietly feed my creativity in ways that no glamorous getaway ever could.

Not all vacations need a beach. Sometimes, the best vacations happen when you stay close and simply pay attention.