Akiko Ohki's "My Awakening": Letting Go of Competition, Embracing Self-Care

In February 2025, I published my new novel My Dear Kitchen. which took me two years to complete it. During that time, I often put down my pen, unsure of how to move the story forward. I was losing confidence and questioning, "What does it mean to be a novelist?"

I didn't know how to write novels in the first place.

Usually, aspiring novelists enter literary competitions and get their start by winning a newcomer award. But in my case, it all began when an article I wrote as a freelance writer went viral online. That unexpected break led to new opportunities and eventually, I found myself working as a novelist — without ever having learned how to write novels.

With bloodshot eyes and my hair a mess, I often found myself shouting, "Someone, please teach me how to write novels!"

I ended up putting my serialized work on hold, inconveniencing my editor, and even told my tax accountant , "I'm taking a break from writing, so my income is going to drop."

During that break, I actually tried out other jobs.

One of them was teaching arts and crafts to kids. Working with elementary school students—building things from wood or drawing on iPads—turned out to be a surprisingly joyful experience.

Their pure expressions, the delight they showed while making simple keychains, and how they eagerly crafted puzzles for their siblings reminded me of something I had nearly forgotten: the simple, honest joy of creating.

It struck me like lightning—that this is what truly matters to me.

When I published The Former Idol Who Hit Rock Bottom Chose to Live with a Complete Stranger and Synapse, I was determined not to be dismissed as just another "ex-idol turned novelist." I was ready to storm the literary world, fully armored.

I received baseless criticism on social media—accusations that I was overestimated.

So I focused entirely on writing, driven by the desire to win the battle and become a novelist admired by women.

But that success came at a cost. As my career took off, I sacrificed my personal life, even dating, for the sake of creativity. I poured everything into the pursuit my dream.

People told me I should also make room for happiness as a woman, but honestly, I didn't care. While my "rival" writers were off enjoying life, I was fixated on writing just one more good sentence. I feared that if I allowed myself to lean on someone, I'd never stand on my own again.

All I wanted was to win.

That desire still exists in me but one day I started to ask myself: Is this really why I became a writer?

When I first wrote The Former Idol Who Hit Rock Bottom, I did it to encourage women who felt stuck in life—just like I once did. Somewhere along the way, that motivation got clouded by my desire for praise, for recognition.

A quiet voice inside me asked, "Wasn't your real goal to help people? To offer hope?"

That's when I realized: I'd mistaken the result for the reason. I became so obsessed with being the ideal version of a writer that I lost sight of why I started in the first place.

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I've spent my entire life in competitive industries—first as an actress and idol, then working corporate jobs, and later as a freelance writer. No matter the setting, I pushed myself relentlessly, refusing to settle.

That drive—the intense, almost masculine energy—fueled my writing of Synapse. But the more I pushed forward, the heavier the armor became. Eventually, I couldn't breathe.

Competition can push us to grow. But not all competition is worth engaging in. When we keep fighting battles that don't need to be fought, we end up choking ourselves.

So I made a choice. I took off the armor—and picked up the pen again.

By letting go of the pressure, I reconnected with who I truly am.

Once I let go of my obsessions and stepped away from unnecessary competition, a quiet desire began to surface: I want to embrace my femininity and enjoy simply living as a woman.

To be clear—this isn't about "giving up on dreams to get married" or anything like that. It's about the little things: eating what I love, wearing clothes that make me happy, cooking with ease for someone I care about... or putting on makeup just because it makes me feel good.

It's about honoring who I am right now and living each day with intention. When you start treating yourself with that kind of care, that allows you to see what you didn't see before.

Your expression softens. People begin to notice—and they respond differently. Because they open up to you, you feel safe enough to do the same. That connection helps you show up more fully for others. Even the people you attract start to change. Honestly, I feel like my skin is glowing more these days.

Maybe that's what real transformation looks like—not some grand, dramatic leap, but tiny shifts, day by day, that matter.

Lately, I've started to believe the future quietly shifts in good directions.

I used to believe that destiny was something you had to carve out with your own hands. But now, I'm starting to think maybe much of life is already gently mapped out, and if we simply do our best within that path, things unfold as they're meant to—like being guided by something unseen.

And when I say "already mapped out," I don't mean that in a fatalistic or limiting way.

What I mean is: life can offer us far more beauty and wonder than we could ever imagine for ourselves, and you should know that.

Take me, for example. I never—not even once—imagined I'd go from being an idol to becoming a writer. The journey was brutal, and writing itself even more so. When I finally published a book, it didn't even feel real. But somehow, without realizing it, I'd been led here.

And maybe that's just how life works.

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There's no magic spell to change your life overnight.

But gently, little by little, things can start to shine.

That's why I want to keep facing forward—doing my best to stay centered, while being kind to myself.

And if you, reading this now, feel stuck in a competition you never wanted to join, maybe it's okay to step away.

Try listening to your own heart. Try taking care of yourself. Because somewhere down the line, the version of you you've always been meant to be—might already be waiting.

This text has been translated using an automatic translation tool.