Hakuba, Japan

Hakuba became my sanctuary—a place where snow-capped peaks shimmer in July heat and icy blue rivers cut through valleys that seem to exist outside of time. Nestled in Nagano Prefecture's mountains, it's where you can hike 1,800 meters to find hidden alpine ponds, bike through villages with no destination in mind, and feel nature pulse with the same rhythm as your own heartbeat.

I first arrived thanks to Tomoko Kusamoto, founder of Hakuba International School, who invited me to intern at their summer program. In 2024, I joined their third week-long session, working with a dozen middle school students from across Japan who had come to explore sustainability and the great outdoors. We were set to run the World Peace Game—a complex simulation with life-sized plexiglass structures, figurines, and toy battleships that teaches systems thinking through diplomatic chaos. A certified facilitator was scheduled to lead us through it.

The night before our session began, word came that our facilitator had fallen ill. Suddenly we were scrambling past midnight, with no plan and curious kids arriving at sunrise.

It was chaos—but it cracked open a door I hadn't known existed. With no official leader, I stepped off the sidelines and into something entirely my own. Drawing on Compassionate Systems thinking, environmental science, and a growing fascination with technology, I designed workshops from scratch. I taught ecological interdependence, explained how the internet works, and had students running through buildings mapping Wi-Fi signals and tracing ethernet cables. We practiced meditative breathing to regulate nervous systems. Somewhere in the middle of it all, I turned 18.

Looking back, I know it must have been exhausting for everyone involved. But what I remember isn't the stress—it's the joy. That week taught me that improvisation, when grounded in purpose, creates the most meaningful teaching moments of all.

The following year brought me back for a longer program with twice the students. The plan involved a seasoned counselor from the U.S. designing the experience while I supported alongside Isaac, another recent graduate who had once been a student in the program himself. But weeks before we were set to begin, another curveball: our lead counselor faced a medical emergency and couldn't make the trip.

Suddenly, designing and leading the entire summer program fell to Isaac and me. We spent days preparing—crafting workshops, drafting schedules, anticipating everything we couldn't possibly know. When we arrived in Hakuba, we were joined by five exceptional student interns and three adults managing logistics behind the scenes.

Running a summer program, we learned quickly, is far more complex than it appears. We memorized names and personalities almost instantly to build advisory groups that actually worked. We organized trips to Matsumoto Castle, led hikes up Iwatake Mountain followed by ice cream overlooking the valley, camped by Lake Aoki's shores, and ran paddleboarding races under summer sun. Simultaneously, we guided students through research projects tackling local sustainability challenges, culminating in pitches to real community leaders.

It was tough work—mediating arguments, setting boundaries, maintaining group morale, ensuring each student felt seen and safe. I learned more about leadership in those weeks than in years of theory. But perhaps the most enduring lesson was this: to truly take care of others, you must also take care of yourself.

In the shadow of those mountains, surrounded by kids discovering something new—not just about the world, but about themselves—I began to understand a different kind of leadership. Not the kind that stands in front with all the answers, but the kind that shows up in uncertainty, listens deeply, adapts quickly, and holds space for others to shine.

Those summers in Hakuba changed me. They taught me that the best growth happens when plans fall apart and you're forced to improvise with heart and intention. They reminded me that some of the most beautiful moments emerge not from control, but from trust—in others, in the process, and in your own ability to rise to the occasion.