Profile

During my high school years, I struggled both at home and in school.
My parents fought constantly, and I had no safe space to focus on studying.
With failing grades and no clear future in sight, even graduating felt out of reach.

I faced one setback after another—failing the employment exam for Tokyo Disneyland, and not passing the Level 2 ski badge test, which meant giving up on attending a ski academy.
Everything I tried seemed to fall apart.

But it was through those failures that I stumbled upon something new: a snowboarding camp in the United States, where I could connect with professional athletes.
This discovery lit a spark in me.
I began taking English lessons at NOVA to prepare myself, and eventually, I found the courage to head overseas and chase a new dream in the world of snowboarding.

When I turned 20, my father—who had been running his own business—suddenly disappeared.
To escape overwhelming debts, our family was forced to separate and live apart.

My sister and I found ourselves living out of a car, traveling from one snowboarding competition to the next.
We had no home. Our car became our shelter as we moved across Hokkaido, Tohoku, Niigata, and Nagano in search of snow and opportunity.

Meals were simple—cabbage, bread, natto, apples, and supermarket food samples.
A rare treat was going to a conveyor belt sushi restaurant and sharing a single plate.

Every day was a new challenge.
We hoped to get leftover lift tickets from people heading home.
When that didn’t work, we hiked up the mountain ourselves—snowboard in hand—just to keep practicing.

We had no access to showers, so we’d make friends on the slopes in hopes of being invited to their homes to wash up.

It was a tough, uncertain life. But even in the cold and hunger, we kept chasing our dream—together, and with everything we had.

Survival wasn’t just physical—it was emotional, mental, and deeply personal.
To earn a living, to give my life meaning, I had to win. There was no other option.

As a member of the All Japan Ski Federation National Team and an Olympic-designated athlete, I began competing internationally.
I trained harder than anyone else, every single day, driven by the belief that everyone around me was a rival.
The only way forward was to keep winning—at all costs.

At every competition, with every new person I met, I repeated the same words with unwavering conviction:
“I’m going to the Olympics.”

And in 2002, at the age of 26, I made that dream a reality—representing Japan in the snowboard halfpipe at the Salt Lake City Winter Olympics.

But not long after, everything began to shift.

A serious knee injury during training forced me into surgery, and I spent the remainder of my twenties in rehabilitation.
Though I eventually returned to competition, something had changed—deep inside.
Fear began to take hold. Fear of the tricks I once performed without hesitation.
My body could move, but my heart hesitated.

In a small, old wooden apartment in Sangenjaya, I quietly made the decision to retire at the age of 30.

With that decision, I lost everything—my sponsors, my identity as an athlete, and the life I had built through snowboarding.
I had no choice but to face the fact: I could no longer make a living from the sport I had once lived for.

I started my career from absolute zero, driven by three clear goals: to work globally, to live a financially secure life, and to build a professional skill set in the foreign or financial sectors. My very first job was a one-week temp role at a British trust bank, literally opening envelopes—a small but symbolic restart.

From there, I restarted English conversation lessons and worked my way up to a 600 score on the TOEIC exam. I made foreign friends while living in Japan and immersed myself in English through self-study every single day. I created opportunities to use English, even sacrificing sleep to do so.

I believed that opportunities aren't something you wait for—they're something you create. I networked with people across departments and gained experience as an assistant in multiple roles. Eventually, I heard that if I obtained a bookkeeping certification, I could be promoted to a contract position. I immediately began studying.

“Just one book and a month of study—you’ll pass easily.”
Encouraged by that, I took the exam—
and got a score of zero.

That was when I truly realized how high the wall of the working world could be.

Then one day, I was invited to a party hosted by a foreign company at Roppongi Hills. I saw it as a chance. I quickly put together a one-page summary of my work experience and created an “Olympian Business Card” that very day. At the party, I went around saying, “I’m looking for a job,” and handed out my card.

A few days later, I heard about an assistant position at a New York-based investment advisory firm with an office in Shibuya. I didn't hesitate—I flew to New York for the interview.

And—I got the job.
It was an opportunity I created by taking action.

Once I began earning a stable income, I could finally start saving. I enrolled in TAC, a well-known school for qualifications in Japan, and obtained my Bookkeeping Level 3 and Level 2 certifications.

Everything seemed to be going smoothly—until 2011.

At age 36, due to the aftermath of the Great East Japan Earthquake, the company I worked for shut down, and I lost my job unexpectedly.

Even so, I knew one thing for certain:
I had the strength to rise again from there.

Losing my job made one thing painfully clear—being a skilled assistant wouldn't be enough to secure a future, especially beyond my 40s.
I wanted more than just stability. I wanted to be recognized for my abilities and build a career that would allow me to thrive globally.

I realized that conversational English alone wouldn’t take me there.
So I made a decision: to pursue a professional qualification in English.

After consulting with the school TAC, I began preparing for the U.S. Certified Public Accountant (USCPA) exam.
I gave up my ¥120,000 apartment in Shibuya and moved to a small, modest place in Urayasu—where I had lived as a child. For the next two years, my life became a cycle of sleeping and studying.

The journey was incredibly isolating. The material was difficult, the pressure relentless.
At my lowest point, I called my mother, hoping for comfort.

Instead, she told me:
“No one else is suffering like you. From now on, live your life expecting not to be understood.”

Her words were harsh—but they gave me strength.
If no one else could walk this path with me, I would walk it anyway.

By the third year, my savings had run out. I took on short-term temp work, but never stopped studying.
I squeezed in study sessions before and after work, during lunch breaks, even on train rides.

Eventually, I passed two of the four USCPA sections.
With renewed hope, I began job hunting—and was hired by Rakuten. (TOEIC score: 820)

Even after starting full-time work, I didn’t stop.
I studied in empty company conference rooms during Golden Week, on weekends, and through every holiday.

In my fourth year, I finally passed all four sections of the USCPA exam.

It wasn’t a medal or a podium, but to me—it was a victory greater than the Olympics.

At a time when I was feeling worn out from life in Tokyo, my sister—whom I hadn’t spoken to in over ten years—reached out.
Seeing how hard and guarded I had become, she gently said,
“I want to introduce you to a kind friend.”

That friend turned out to be the man who would later become my husband.
We quickly bonded over our shared love of cycling and snowboarding, and a new chapter began.

I got married at 43 and gave birth at 45.
We named our daughter Yukari, a word that means “connection,” hoping she would always treasure the ties she forms with others.

Not long after, my sister and I fulfilled a long-held dream—we launched our very own snowboarding school.

It was more than just a project.
It was a way to give back to the snowboarding world that had shaped me,
to repay the kindness I received during my most difficult times living out of a car,
and to express my gratitude to the sister who had reentered my life and guided me toward love and happiness.

As I step into my 50s, I’m embracing a new chapter filled with purpose, passion, and possibility.

I hope to share the beauty and excitement of Tochigi’s natural surroundings with people from urban areas through sports and outdoor activities.
I also want to support athletes navigating life after retirement, as well as those exploring career changes or returning to education—just as I once did.

Another important mission is to continue developing the snowboard school at Aizu Kogen Nango Ski Resort, a place that has supported me through many seasons. I’m committed to giving back to the community that has given me so much.

Launching this website marks the beginning of these new efforts—
a fresh start, and a heartfelt step toward making a difference in the lives of others.