Hakuba, Japan

I first arrived in Hakuba, Japan in the summer of 2024 after being invited by Tomoko Kusamoto, founder of Hakuba International School (HIS), to intern at the third week of their summer program. Despite having lived in Japan for five years with my family earlier in life, I had rarely traveled outside Yokohama City, so experiencing a rural village nestled between snow-capped mountains that shimmer in July felt magical. I had met Tomoko-san through my mom who had worked with her translating an educational event a while back. What was most fortuitous was discovering that she had gone through the same Compassionate Systems Master Practitioner program I was completing at the time—and her project then was to build the very school where I would be interning at.

Even though we'd just met, we saw that we shared a vision for education—one that integrated sustainable living, systems thinking, and a strong sense of community. The team included Tomoko-san, Akiko Horii, a few college students, another high schooler from One Stone (an innovative school in Boise, Idaho), a handful of HIS middle school interns, and myself. Together, we were responsible for about a dozen students for seven days as we led outdoor adventures and learned what it means to live harmoniously with each other and the planet. Our main project was meant to be the World Peace Game—a complex simulation played on a life-sized plexiglass structure with figurines, toy battleships, and paper cutouts, designed to teach the realities of solving global crises through diplomacy. But the day before we were set to begin, the game's certified facilitator fell ill which left us scrambling past midnight to figure out what to do instead.

Duck syndrome, which describes the phenomenon of appearing calm on the surface while paddling furiously beneath the water, was exactly what those first days felt like. In place of the World Peace Game, we pivoted to a Model UN, with each group researching an assigned country and collaborating on a global climate change solution. But thanks to the relentless effort of the team, we managed to move forward as planned. With the reshuffled schedule, a new opportunity emerged for me to teach self-designed lessons on topics I was passionate about.

Given my goal of becoming a teacher, it felt great to be able to teach freely without the limitations of a traditional classroom. Aligning with the program's themes, I ran a workshop on ecosystems, guiding students to model the dynamics between plant and animal species. Continuing with the idea of interconnectedness, I taught them how the internet works—from miles of underwater cables to the access point and router that were located right in that building. We explored websites tracking planes across the globe and satellites orbiting the Earth, appreciating the complex systems humanity has built to keep society running. And I guided them to explore their own human system, showing how prioritizing their personal well-being is what allows us to contribute meaningfully to others. Those seven days must’ve been exhausting for everyone, but looking back I don't remember the stress or frantic paddling—all I remember is it was one of the best weeks of that summer.

A year later, I was invited back, but this time I wasn't just a helpful intern—I co-designed the entire program, now with double the participants for double the program length. The original plan was for a U.S.-based professional camp counselor to fly to Japan and run the program, but weeks before it began, a medical emergency prevented him from coming. That left me and another pre-college student familiar with the work, to organize the two-week experience. We spent weeks building the schedule, planning outdoor activities, and designing the main project. Our collaborators included Tomoko-san, a teacher at HIS, two adults experienced in outdoor leadership who became essential for camp logistics, and five exceptional HIS interns just entering high school but were already far beyond their years.

With 24 students to oversee we had to put our best foot forward. Running a summer program with two dozen middle schoolers proved far more complex than we'd imagined. We quickly memorized names and personalities to create advisory and project groups that balanced friendships with productive pairings. We stuck to our plans—visiting Matsumoto Castle, hiking up Iwatake Mountain and Happo Pond, and camping overnight on the bank of Aoki Lake, where paddleboarding and swimming became the trip's highlight. Drawing from their outdoor experiences, we led a research project on local sustainability initiatives, culminating in a pitch competition to real community leaders.

The work was as exhilarating as it was demanding. When things went smoothly, it was easy—but mediating conflicts, setting boundaries, and ensuring every student felt seen and safe required real dedication and heart. The most enduring lesson was this: to truly care for others, you must first care for yourself. As the days went by, some mistakes surfaced and you could feel the decision fatigue set in. But with guidance from the more experienced counselers in the room—and the with a refreshing swim at Aoki Lake—we pushed through, doing our best each day to create a once-in-a-lifetime experience for the students. Those two weeks were a masterclass in trusting my team, engaging in productive dialogue, and rising to the occasion whenever possible. Although there are far more memories from those weeks, the greatest gift was the clarity it gave me that purposeful education is built on trust, adaptability, and empathy—and that if my future holds more summers like Hakuba, I am exactly where I'm meant to be.