Allow me post today one of the blogs I wrote for Samugaku!
Not “What’s Wrong With You?” — But “What Do You Need?”
At Samugaku, we work with young people who are often called school refusers, hikikomori, or NEETs. But in our eyes, they are not broken. They are in the process of growing.”
Some have spent months—or years—inside their rooms. Some are afraid of eye contact. Some are eager to connect but don’t know how. They come to us not for lectures or pressure, but for a place to breathe. A place to try. A place to fail and try again.
Japan’s crisis of school refusal and social withdrawal cannot be solved by advice alone. It cannot be solved by blame. What these young people need is time—and presence. I often say: before we give advice, we must give at least 20 hours of our life simply being with them. That might take five months. It might take a year. But only after that does trust begin to grow.
And once trust begins, something shifts. That’s where Samugaku comes in—not as a clinic or a cram school, but as a community of practice.
Here, students step out of their so-called “comfort zones”—which are often not comfortable at all, but lonely and rigid survival spaces. Instead, they step into volleyball courts and ballet shoes, mallet ball race and vegetable gardens. They learn to grow rice, apples, and grapes, and in the process, grow themselves. They move their bodies, try unfamiliar skills, and fail together—without shame.
Our staff doesn’t stand at a whiteboard. We work alongside them. Whether we’re changing tires, carrying compost, or talking about mental health, there are adults present—not to control, but to walk with.
In a society where conformity is often prized over authenticity, we teach the opposite. We help students discover who they are—not who they are supposed to be. Not just through ideas, but through daily, practical experiences. They learn that resilience is not pretending to be okay. It is learning how to live with differences—between you and me, between past and future, between what is hard and what is possible.
Too often, Japanese children are told what to do but not why. Discipline becomes hollow. Parents act out of fear, guilt, or exhaustion. Schools are blamed, even when they are doing their best. And children are left wondering if they are “too much” or “not enough.”
But at Samugaku, there is no rush to “fix.” There is only the slow work of re-learning life—through cooking together, stretching, journaling, sharing meals, and sometimes sitting quietly in the same room.
We are not a perfect place. But we are a place where growth happens—not just in theory, but in soil, sweat, silence, and small laughter.
And if we can support even one student to rejoin the world, to smile again, to dream again—that is enough to keep going.
Let’s stop asking, “What’s wrong with you?”
Let’s start asking, “What do you need—and how can we walk there together?”
Life indeed is gorgeous.