How tonafu Came to Be

Meet the Founder

Hello, I’m Kanae, the founder of tonafu.

tonafu grew from a simple wish: to turn everyday skincare into a moment of care for both body and mind.

That wish took shape gradually, through my childhood in Japan, life overseas, motherhood, and my introduction to traditional East Asian medicine. Today, I’d like to share a little of that journey with you.

Growing Up with the Seasons

I was born in Kurashiki, Okayama, surrounded by the mountains and waters of Japan’s Seto Inland Sea region.

Summers meant swimming at the local pool or in the ocean. In winter, my family went skiing or visited hot springs. At home, we ate locally caught fish and seasonal vegetables, enjoying what each season brought to our table.

At the time, none of this felt particularly special. It was simply everyday life.

Looking back, I see a connection to the Japanese concept of yōjō: caring for our health and well-being through the way we live each day.

Noticing the seasons, eating local foods, and making time to rest. Perhaps the foundations of what I value today were already there, long before I had words for them.

Finding My Way in New Zealand

At fifteen, I left Japan on my own to attend high school in New Zealand. I would spend the next eight years there, away from my family.

I found warmth in the people and beauty in the landscapes, though there were times when I deeply missed Japanese food and a long soak in a Japanese bath.

Living in another country was exciting, but I was young and didn’t always know how to recognise what my body and mind needed. Looking back, I wish I had understood more about caring for myself during those years.

Later, while studying spatial design in Wellington, a vegetarian friend introduced me to organic living. Through food, cafés, natural skincare, and more environmentally conscious choices, I encountered a way of life that felt quietly familiar, even though much of it was new to me.

It wasn’t something I had to convince myself to embrace. It simply felt right.

Learning to Pause

After graduating, I returned to Japan and joined an apparel and art company in Tokyo.

I had wanted to work somewhere connected to clothing, food, and living spaces, and the role brought together many of my interests. Over approximately eight years, I worked as a shop manager, buyer, and exhibition director, helping organise art and fashion exhibitions.

The work was creative, stimulating, and rewarding. I threw myself into it, working from morning until night and sometimes on my days off.

For a long time, I was so absorbed in moving forward that I paid little attention to how I was feeling.

Then, about a year before I left the company, I developed persistent throat pain.

I visited several doctors and specialists, but no clear cause was found. Although the examinations offered no explanation, the discomfort continued.

Around this time, I turned to my brother-in-law, a Kampo pharmacist. I knew very little about traditional East Asian medicine, but hoped he might offer a different perspective.

He listened carefully as I described not only my symptoms, but also my work and daily life.

What stayed with me most was the reassurance of feeling heard. After so long without an explanation, it meant a great deal to have someone take time to understand my experience.

He recommended a Kampo formula and spoke with me about my routine and the pace of my life.

After getting married, I left my job. About a month later, I realised that the throat pain had gone.

I couldn’t say exactly what had changed, but the experience changed the way I thought about caring for myself. I began to pay more attention to the connections between my daily habits, emotional well-being, and physical comfort.

It was my first meaningful encounter with traditional East Asian medicine, and the beginning of a new curiosity.

Motherhood and a Different Kind of Care

After getting married, I moved to Australia, where my husband was living. In 2020, during the pandemic, I became a mother for the first time.

Motherhood brought new questions into my life.

What do we truly need? What feels right for our family? How can the choices we make each day help us care for ourselves and one another?

As I read and explored different perspectives, I found myself returning to traditional East Asian medicine and its emphasis on the relationship between our bodies, our surroundings, and the seasons.

I was especially drawn to the idea of paying attention to small changes, rather than only thinking about our well-being when something feels wrong.

Care began to feel less like one big answer and more like a collection of small, everyday choices.

A New Chapter

Today, I am studying to become an acupuncturist in Australia.

The more I learn, the more I value the simple ways we can make space for ourselves and the people we love. For me, yōjō is not about following a perfect routine. It is about noticing, responding, and finding habits that fit the life we are actually living.

I often think about my younger self, living far from home and still learning how to care for herself.

Now, as a mother to a daughter and son, I hope to pass on some of what I wish I had known then. Not as a set of rules, but gently, through the meals we share, the rhythms of our home, and the way we care for one another.

In many ways, this feels like a new chapter of my life. tonafu is part of that chapter.

The Heart of tonafu

tonafu brings together the experiences and values that have shaped me.

My wish is not simply to create skincare products, but to make room for a small moment of care in everyday life.

When we touch our skin, we have an opportunity to pause. To notice how we feel. To take a breath before moving on to the next thing.

That is the feeling I hope tonafu can offer.

I also hope it opens a gentle introduction to yōjō and the ideas that have inspired me, encouraging curiosity about how we care for ourselves day by day.

Skincare may be a small daily ritual, but that is part of its beauty. It does not need to be elaborate to feel meaningful.

A single drop. A gentle touch. A quiet moment that belongs to you.