Japan's PM's grueling work schedule backfires as approval ratings plummet

Japan's Prime Minister Takaichi has built her leadership around an almost monastic devotion to work. She sleeps little, leaves her office rarely, and has made a point of residing at the official residence rather than maintaining a separate home. The message is clear: she is always working, always available, always focused on the nation's business. It is a style rooted in a particular understanding of duty—the idea that a leader's sacrifice of personal comfort translates directly into better governance.

But the public is not reading it that way. Her approval ratings have declined steadily even as her work hours have intensified. The gap between what she intends to communicate—tireless dedication—and what voters are actually hearing has become impossible to ignore. The harder she works, the less popular she becomes.

Part of the problem may be that extreme work habits, once a mark of honor in Japanese corporate culture, now read differently to a population increasingly skeptical of burnout as a virtue. Takaichi's minimal sleep and constant office presence were meant to signal commitment. Instead, they signal something else: a leader so isolated from normal life that she has lost touch with how ordinary people actually live.

The isolation has taken on an almost poignant dimension. Confined to the official residence and rarely venturing out, Takaichi has spoken publicly about the loneliness of her position. In a detail that captured international media attention, she revealed that she had befriended a cockroach—a small creature that shared her solitary nights in the office. When her staff removed the insect, she expressed relief but also a sense of loss. The anecdote was meant, perhaps, to humanize her. Instead, it underscored the peculiarity of her self-imposed confinement.

Her office has defended the practice, arguing that staying at the official residence allows her to remain focused on work without distraction. But the public seems to be drawing a different conclusion: that a leader who cannot step away from her desk, who has so little life outside of governance that she forms attachments to insects, may not be the kind of leader they want. There is something unsettling about the image of a prime minister so consumed by work that she has become a stranger to the world she governs.

The disconnect points to a broader shift in how leadership is understood. Voters increasingly expect their leaders to demonstrate not just work ethic but also balance—to show that they have lives, relationships, and perspectives shaped by experiences beyond the office. A leader who never leaves, who never rests, who has become so isolated that loneliness becomes a public talking point, may be communicating something unintended: not dedication, but disconnection.

As Takaichi's approval numbers continue to fall, the question facing her administration is whether the strategy itself needs to change. The extreme work schedule was meant to project strength and commitment. Instead, it has become a liability, a visible reminder that she has sacrificed not just her personal life but also her connection to the people she leads. The irony is sharp: in trying to prove she works for them, she has made herself unreachable to them.