It has been almost two years since I left an organisation that shaped a significant chapter of my professional life. I am deeply rooted and grateful for the work I do now, but as 2026 begins, I find myself intentionally remembering something beautiful from an earlier season of my journey.

Not as a comparison point, and not as something to recreate—but as a quiet reflection on a chapter that helped form who I am today, and why I continue to believe so deeply in what schools and communities can become when belief, trust, and courage align.

Almost eight years ago, I became part of a founding team tasked with building a school from the ground up. For six of those years, that school was not just where I worked—it was where I lived, learned, and grew alongside my family, students, and colleagues. There was an existing model to follow, but it quickly became clear that our context—our place in the world, our students, our families—required something different. So we listened. And then we built.

We opened as a boarding school, and that detail matters. We didn’t just work there—we lived there. We lived in the boarding apartments adjacent to our students. We ate together, studied together, argued, laughed, recovered, and grew together. The community was so tightly woven that some students cried at the start of holiday breaks, grieving the temporary loss of a place that felt more like home than school.

There were many structures in that school that worked well, and many that did not. It was never perfect—and it wasn’t meant to be. What stayed with me were not the polished systems, but the ways of thinking and doing that emerged because of the moment we were in. The timing mattered. The nature of a start-up mattered. There was a shared understanding that everything was in draft form—that iteration was not a failure, but an expectation. Many arrived ready to adapt quickly, to problem-solve in real time, to try again without ego. That created a very different kind of energy—lighter, braver, more honest. If you’ve never been part of a school in its building phase, it’s hard to explain just how unique it is.

There is a rare permission in those early years to imagine freely, adjust boldly, and build together while everything is still becoming.

We reimagined the school day. On Wednesdays, the school day paused. Learning didn’t stop—but it softened and stretched. Students used that time to recalibrate: to seek support, re-sit assessments without stigma, drop into teachers’ rooms for unhurried conversations, study with friends, work on passion projects, or simply breathe.

It was a collective acknowledgment that growth doesn’t always happen on a fixed timetable—and that sometimes the most important learning begins when we slow down.

We introduced Genius Hour, where middle and high school students worked side by side on several five-week projects throughout the year, bound not by age or grades, but by curiosity and shared interests. These were not isolated “projects for display,” but incubators for real ideas. Over time, they grew into not-for-profit initiatives, media teams, redesigned learning spaces, a student-run bakery café, research projects, trips, and programs that became part of the school itself. What began as imagination gradually became infrastructure—student ideas woven into the fabric of the institution.

Alongside this, we designed many bespoke electives shaped around our students’ evolving pathways—constantly asking how we could help them move closer to their goals. Teachers drew on their passions, university experiences, and professional networks to create opportunities that did not exist before.

Everyone looked for ways to connect students with someone, somewhere, who could help them take the next step toward their dreams. This became part of the culture: possibility-seeking, relationship-driven, deeply intentional.

Teachers were alive in their work. Fully present. Lifelong learners again. Many began projects alongside students, modeling growth rather than perfection. They carried a sense of humor too—an ease with one another that made even the hardest days lighter. Life felt simple in the best way: meaningful work, honest laughter, shared purpose.

Every day, I felt an immense sense of gratitude to be surrounded by such a talented, generous group of educators. To serve as their Principal was a privilege—one that grounded me in humility, trust, and deep belief in what teachers can build when they are truly seen and supported.

Our student leaders didn’t just represent voices—they co-authored policies and processes with adults. They did so with care, empathy, and a deep sense of ownership. Everyone—students and staff alike—acted like builders every single day.

In time, very selective universities globally began to notice—not just our students’ academic profiles, but their stories, their agency, and the way they spoke about having helped build their own community. That recognition was never the goal, but it became a meaningful affirmation. We were proud of what we had built—and it mattered to know that others could see it too.

I was supported by a head of school who believed deeply in the cause. Some of our best thinking happened not in meeting rooms, but over barbecues and shrimp boils—living simply, dreaming boldly, hearts fully on our sleeves.

My own children were part of this founding story too. With other founding students, they helped shape the culture, grew up alongside their peers, and shared life in a community where school and home were not separate worlds. We even lived through COVID together—and somehow emerged stronger, more connected, more human.

As often happens over time, governance and vision evolved, and the school chose a different direction. The school was renamed and rebranded to align with the new project. Some of us who were part of the building phase knew it was time to step away too.

I still think about the kind of community we created. How rare it was. How, for a moment, we all glimpsed what school could be when we truly listen to students, trust teachers, and invite educators to help write the story rather than simply deliver it. That experience left me with enduring lessons about what it means to build a school—lessons rooted not just in structures or schedules, but in relationships, shared ownership, and belief.

This experience also helped me understand something about myself now. Why conversations about possibility with students still energize me. Why imagining new pathways with colleagues feels expansive rather than exhausting. Why I remain hopeful and deeply optimistic about education, even in complex times. I’ve seen what can happen when people are trusted, when imagination is taken seriously, and when community is built with intention.

It didn’t last forever. But it existed. And because it existed once, it continues to shape how I lead, how I listen, and how I dream.

As 2026 begins, I carry that chapter with me—not as nostalgia, but as a compass. I want to continue bringing the energy of that time into my current work: the willingness to keep iterating, to move forward thoughtfully, to make things better without losing sight of the people and the process along the way.

Whether I am in a start-up phase or building on an existing legacy, I hold onto the same belief—that when we lead with humanity, curiosity, and care, something extraordinary remains possible, again and again.