On Change, Understanding, Agency, and the True Purpose of Education
By Greg Culos
I have always believed that change is the only truly constant condition of existence. From one moment to the next, even from one millisecond to the next, nothing remains entirely as it was. Yet I have never found that realization unsettling. Quite the opposite. I believe that once we genuinely come to terms with the constant nature of change, we discover a profound sense of security.
Change itself becomes stability.
We no longer depend upon the environment remaining predictable or familiar to feel secure within it. This understanding has shaped much of my life, from physical pursuits to professional leadership, and ultimately to my philosophy of education.
One of the clearest expressions of this principle comes from snowboarding. When descending a mountain, the surrounding environment is moving past us at considerable speed. The terrain shifts, obstacles appear, and the conditions beneath us constantly change. For someone unfamiliar with the experience, this movement can be intimidating. Yet the experienced snowboarder understands that security does not come from slowing the mountain down or eliminating its uncertainties. Security comes from our relationship with the board, our positional stance, our balance, and our ability to respond to the terrain.
The same principle applies to mountain climbing. Standing on a sheer cliff, hundreds of metres above the ground, might appear terrifying. But if our position is secure, our holds are reliable, and we understand the conditions in which we find ourselves, the apparent enormity of the surrounding exposure need not determine our state of mind. The risks remain real, of course, and must be understood, but the existence of risk and the experience of fear are not necessarily the same thing.
What these experiences have taught me is that security is not the absence of uncertainty. It is the confidence that comes from understanding our relationship with it.
This is not merely a metaphor for how I approach life. It is also the foundation of how I approach leadership.
Over many years of building and leading educational institutions, I have found that much of effective leadership involves anticipating uncertainty, understanding the terrain ahead, and continuously improving our capacity to respond to what we cannot entirely predict. Strategic planning, in this sense, is not an exercise in controlling the future. It is a means of reducing unnecessary uncertainty while increasing our capacity to navigate whatever emerges.
Even relatively small operational decisions reflect this principle. When I am absent from school and formal responsibility rests elsewhere, I may still recognize an emerging difficulty that has not been adequately anticipated or communicated. Providing clarity before that difficulty materializes is not necessarily an attempt to retain control. It is an effort to secure the next hold on the cliff.
The more accurately we understand the terrain, the less energy we need to expend reacting to circumstances that could reasonably have been anticipated.
Experience matters enormously here. Over time, we develop the capacity to recognize patterns, generalize from earlier circumstances, understand relationships between apparently unrelated events, and distinguish genuine problems from variations of problems we already know how to solve. This is what strategic thinking ultimately provides: not certainty about what will happen, but an increasingly sophisticated understanding of what might happen and how we might respond.
I have often noticed, however, that when responsibilities are transferred to others, processes that were designed to be relatively simple can become unnecessarily complicated. Individual circumstances are treated as isolated problems rather than manifestations of broader principles. Solutions become increasingly procedural, exceptions accumulate, and the underlying coherence of the system begins to disappear.
I do not necessarily attribute this to a lack of intelligence or commitment. More often, I suspect that the strategic understanding necessary to interpret the system has not been sufficiently developed. The person has learned what to do without adequately understanding why it should be done, or how the principles behind an established approach might apply when circumstances change.
This distinction explains much of the detail I have insisted upon in developing institutional handbooks, policies, and operational frameworks. A policy is not simply a collection of instructions. Properly developed, it is an expression of institutional reasoning. It establishes the principles, relationships, responsibilities, and contingencies that allow individuals to exercise judgment in circumstances that may never have been explicitly anticipated.
Yet I have frequently encountered the desire to reduce these frameworks to a handful of bullet points.
I understand the attraction. Simplicity is valuable, and clear operational instructions are essential. But there is a fundamental difference between simplicity achieved through understanding and simplicity achieved by removing the understanding.
A checklist can preserve a procedure while losing the intelligence that gave rise to it.
It may tell someone what to do in familiar circumstances, but it cannot necessarily equip them to interpret unfamiliar ones. And therein lies a problem that extends well beyond institutional leadership.
We are increasingly living within a culture of immediacy, accelerated in extraordinary ways by technology. We have become accustomed to moving almost instantaneously from A to Z, often without engaging meaningfully with anything in between. We can obtain answers, generate products, complete tasks, and access information with unprecedented ease.
These capabilities are remarkable, and I would not wish to diminish their value. But they also carry an educational and intellectual danger.
The journey between a question and its answer is not merely an inconvenience to be eliminated. It is frequently the very process through which understanding develops. It is where we encounter contradictions, test assumptions, discover relationships, experience difficulty, and develop the judgment necessary to apply what we have learned in circumstances we have not previously encountered.
I have always believed that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.
This is particularly important in education and institutional development, where understanding does not emerge simply from accumulating isolated pieces of information or mastering a collection of discrete competencies. It emerges from recognizing the relationships between them. Remove those relationships, and something essential is lost. We may retain the information while losing the capacity to make meaningful sense of it.
In the same way that a collection of individually sound policies does not necessarily constitute a coherent institutional framework, a collection of acquired skills does not necessarily produce an educated person. What matters is the integration of knowledge, experience, perspective, and judgment into an understanding that can be applied beyond the circumstances in which it was originally acquired.
Artificial intelligence makes this distinction increasingly urgent.
AI is an extraordinary tool, one that can help us examine ideas, articulate complex arguments, challenge assumptions, and explore possibilities far beyond what might otherwise be immediately accessible. I use it extensively, but I do not surrender my understanding of the world to it. I read, question, assess, and evaluate what it produces against my own experience and judgment.
That does not mean I am uninfluenced by it. We are influenced constantly by people, experiences, information, and the environments through which we move. Influence, however, is not the same as the surrender of intellectual agency.
The value of a tool lies in what it enables us to understand and accomplish, not simply in the sophistication of the outcome it produces. Used thoughtfully, technology can extend our intellectual reach. Used uncritically, it can allow us to bypass the very processes through which intellectual independence is developed.
An instrument I find particularly useful in illustrating this distinction is the astrolabe.
However remarkable its design, an astrolabe is of little consequence without a reason to use it. We do not begin with the instrument and discover the need to navigate as an incidental outcome of learning to operate it.
We begin with the need to find our way.
That need gives rise to questions. Questions create the demand for understanding. Understanding gives meaning to the instrument, and the instrument extends our capacity to achieve our purpose.
Learning to operate the astrolabe is a procedural skill. Understanding navigation, celestial relationships, direction, and the principles through which we locate ourselves in the world is something considerably deeper. Recognizing the need to go somewhere is what gives the entire undertaking its purpose.
This distinction may seem obvious, yet it has profound implications for how we conceive of learning. The instrument serves the inquiry, the inquiry develops understanding, and understanding enables purposeful action. The relationship can also work in reverse: as our understanding grows, we discover new possibilities, develop new questions, and sometimes find purposes that had not previously occurred to us.
Learning is therefore not simply the acquisition of means to accomplish predetermined ends. It is an expanding capacity to recognize what might be possible, determine what is worthwhile, and develop the understanding necessary to pursue it.
This, to me, is the essence of education.
It is also where I believe some contemporary educational movements, including interpretations of the International Baccalaureate, have encountered a significant difficulty.
Let me be clear: I fundamentally agree with the philosophical foundations of inquiry-based, experiential, and student-centred learning. These approaches are neither particularly new nor inherently revolutionary. Their intellectual foundations have existed for generations, and I have advocated their essential principles throughout my career.
My concern is not with the philosophy itself.
My concern is with its interpretation.
More particularly, it is with what happens when the language of an educational philosophy begins to displace the intellectual discipline necessary to realize its intentions.
Too often, educational philosophy becomes institutional ideology. Principles that were intended to encourage deeper understanding become simplified into prescribed behaviours and assumptions that are no longer sufficiently questioned. We begin to confuse the appearance of progressive educational practice with the achievement of meaningful educational outcomes.
Particular methods become markers of philosophical commitment, while other equally legitimate approaches are dismissed because they appear inconsistent with an institutional identity. The danger is not that educators subscribe to a shared philosophy; coherence of purpose is important. The danger emerges when adherence to that philosophy becomes a substitute for evaluating whether its interpretation is actually producing the learning it was intended to support.
Nowhere is this more apparent than in certain interpretations of student agency.
The principle that students should have agency in their learning is entirely sound. But agency is not simply the opportunity to express preferences, exercise choice, or pursue existing interests. A young learner’s preferences are necessarily limited by the boundaries of their experience. Children do not know what they do not yet know, and they cannot reasonably be expected to recognize the value of every experience, challenge, discipline, or intellectual pursuit before encountering it.
If we allow their existing preferences to determine the limits of their education, we risk confining them to the very boundaries education should help them transcend.
The educational responsibility is not merely to accommodate what students already believe they want, but to expand their understanding of what they might become capable of wanting, knowing, and doing.
Agency must be cultivated, not merely granted.
This does not mean that children should be denied meaningful choices or that their voices should be disregarded. Appropriate autonomy is itself an important part of development, and even very young children possess the beginnings of genuine agency. But meaningful agency requires knowledge, judgment, experience, perspective, and an expanding understanding of possibilities and consequences. It is both a capacity we nurture throughout the educational journey and one of the most important outcomes of that journey.
When agency is reduced to the exercise of preference, we risk confusing the appearance of independence with its substance. A student who chooses the easiest available task may have exercised choice, but that choice does not necessarily demonstrate the developed judgment or independence that education should seek to cultivate.
I am equally concerned about the growing tendency to interpret discomfort as something that education should necessarily mitigate.
There is an essential difference between protecting children from harm and protecting them from the difficulty inherent in learning. Frustration, uncertainty, mistakes, sustained effort, and the discomfort of confronting our own limitations are not necessarily indicators that something has gone wrong.
Frequently, they are precisely the experiences through which learning takes place.
The challenge for educators is not to eliminate these experiences, but to understand when they are productive, when they are not, and how to support learners in developing the capacity to respond constructively.
Returning to the mountain, we cannot teach someone to snowboard by ensuring they never experience imbalance. Nor can we develop a capable climber by removing every challenging hold. We create appropriate conditions, provide instruction, establish safeguards, and gradually develop the knowledge and competence through which learners become capable of navigating increasingly demanding situations.
The objective is not to eliminate discomfort. It is to develop the understanding and resilience necessary to move through it productively.
Naturally, appropriate support, differentiation, and sensitivity to genuine individual needs remain essential. Not all discomfort is productive, and not every challenge is appropriate for every learner. But these distinctions require informed professional judgment, not an ideological assumption that difficulty itself represents an educational failure. Indeed, the very capacity to distinguish productive challenge from inappropriate distress is one of the important responsibilities of a skilled educator.
My concern is that, in some settings, progressive educational language has become a convenient justification for avoiding the difficult parts of education. Necessary knowledge is treated as secondary, foundational skills are insufficiently developed, expectations are softened, and independent exploration is encouraged before students possess the conceptual tools necessary to make it productive.
Because these decisions are expressed through the language of agency, well-being, and student-centred learning, they can become unusually difficult to challenge. What may begin as a legitimate commitment to respecting the learner can gradually become a reluctance to insist upon the effort, discipline, and challenge that meaningful learning requires.
The result can be a diminishing educational return, even while the outward appearance of philosophical consistency remains intact.
And the irony is considerable.
An educational philosophy committed to developing independent, critical thinkers must itself remain subject to independent, critical thought.
Otherwise, the philosophy has become the very thing it was intended to overcome.
An institution cannot credibly claim to cultivate inquiry among its students while discouraging critical examination of its own practices among its educators. Nor can it claim to promote agency while interpreting that principle in ways that may ultimately undermine the acquisition of the knowledge and judgment upon which meaningful agency depends.
We must be willing to distinguish philosophical intention from educational consequence and to examine the quality of our outcomes rather than relying upon the virtue of our stated aspirations.
I believe education must return to fundamentals.
Not through nostalgia for rigid instruction or the uncritical restoration of traditional practice, but through a renewed understanding of what learning is actually intended to achieve.
Knowledge matters. Foundational skills matter. Direct instruction has its place, just as inquiry, experimentation, discovery, and student choice have theirs. None should become an end in itself, and none should be dismissed simply because it appears associated with a competing educational tradition.
The central responsibility of the educator is to develop the learner’s capacity to understand the world, recognize relationships, exercise informed judgment, and act purposefully within circumstances that cannot always be anticipated. This demands both intellectual rigour and professional flexibility, along with the willingness to select methods according to their educational value rather than their philosophical appearance.
This is where my longstanding commitment to Agency & Purpose finds its deepest expression.
Purpose gives learning direction, understanding gives it substance, and agency enables us to act upon that understanding and, through experience, extend it further. These are not isolated educational objectives but interdependent dimensions of a developmental process.
Purpose without understanding can become aspiration without substance. Understanding without the capacity to act may remain unfulfilled potential. Agency without sufficient understanding risks becoming little more than the freedom to make poorly informed choices.
Meaningful education brings these dimensions into a relationship in which each strengthens and extends the others.
But even purpose must be understood in relation to something more fundamental.
There must be a reason to go somewhere.
That reason may emerge from necessity, curiosity, aspiration, dissatisfaction, or a possibility that an educator helps a student discover for the first time.
It is not the responsibility of education simply to ask children where they would like to go, particularly when they have not yet encountered enough of the world to imagine the possibilities. It is our responsibility to expand those possibilities, awaken the desire to pursue them, and develop the capabilities through which students can ultimately determine their own direction.
The educator does not need to prescribe the learner’s ultimate destination, but neither should the educator abandon the responsibility to introduce landscapes the learner has not yet imagined.
That is how meaningful agency develops, and it is also how we reconcile freedom with responsibility, independence with guidance, and challenge with care.
The essential question is not whether a student can successfully use the tools we place before them. It is what remains when those tools are removed, the circumstances change, and the answers are no longer readily available.
Can they recognize the terrain? Can they identify what matters? Can they generalize from what they know, tolerate uncertainty, adapt their understanding, and establish their footing in unfamiliar circumstances? Can they make thoughtful decisions when no prescribed procedure adequately addresses the situation?
Most importantly, can they find their way?
I return, finally, to the snowboard and the cliff.
Life does not offer permanence. The environment will continue to change, sometimes gradually and sometimes with extraordinary speed. No education, strategy, policy, or technology can eliminate that reality, nor should we wish to eliminate it.
What we can develop is the capacity to understand our circumstances, establish meaningful relationships with the world around us, and move forward with confidence even when the destination is not entirely clear. The security we seek does not come from knowing every circumstance we may encounter. It comes from developing sufficient understanding, competence, and judgment to navigate those circumstances as they arise.
The highest achievement of education is not to make the world less uncertain for the learner. It is to develop learners who are increasingly capable of finding their own security, direction, and purpose within an uncertain world.
The astrolabe is not the destination, and the objective is not merely to learn how to use it. The objective is to understand why we need to navigate, develop the capacity to read the world around us, and ultimately possess the judgment and confidence to chart a course of our own.
The instrument may change. The terrain will change. Even the destination itself may evolve as our understanding expands. What matters is that we continue to develop the capacity to recognize where we stand, consider where we might go, and determine how best to proceed.
Because in the end, learning has never been simply about acquiring the means to get somewhere.
It is about becoming capable of knowing where to go, understanding why it matters, and finding our way there.
A reflective exploration of leadership, agency, and institutional learning
Introduction: What Is Leadership Ultimately For?
Leadership is frequently measured by what it achieves. We examine the growth of institutions, the accomplishments of teams, the effectiveness of systems, and the legacies of those who guide them. We celebrate successful organizations and often attribute that success to the vision and determination of individuals. Yet these familiar measures invite a more fundamental question: What, ultimately, are we trying to achieve through leadership?
Is the purpose of leadership to build successful institutions? To develop capable individuals? To protect a community’s distinctive identity? Or to create the conditions through which individuals and institutions can continually discover possibilities beyond those originally imagined? These questions are not simply theoretical. They emerge repeatedly in the practical experience of building organizations, developing people, responding to unfamiliar challenges, and confronting the inevitable limitations of approaches that once appeared entirely successful.
Our discussion began with John C. Maxwell’s philosophy of leadership. Maxwell’s emphasis on influence, relationships, achievement, and the development of other leaders provides a valuable starting point. His Five Levels of Leadership culminate in a form of influence that extends beyond position and immediate accomplishment into the development of people and the creation of an enduring legacy. There is considerable wisdom in this progression, particularly in its recognition that leadership should ultimately transcend the individual exercising it. But it also raises a question: Why should developing other leaders necessarily represent the highest achievement of leadership?
The answer depends, of course, on where we place the goalposts.
If our measure is organizational productivity, leadership development has one purpose. If our measure is institutional continuity, it has another. If our interest lies in the realization of human potential, the definition changes again. Each perspective is legitimate, but none necessarily provides a sufficient account of what makes leadership meaningful or enduring. Indeed, the moment we establish a particular measure of success, we also establish the boundaries within which success can be understood. Those boundaries may serve us well for a time, but they can also become limitations when circumstances change or when possibilities emerge that the original definition did not anticipate.
Perhaps there is a more encompassing understanding, one that recognizes the integrity of the institution, the autonomy of the individual, and the dynamic relationship between them. Perhaps leadership is not simply about achieving a particular vision, however worthy, but about developing the capacity of a community to discover and realize possibilities beyond that vision.
And perhaps the greatest achievement of leadership is not what an institution becomes under a particular leader, but what it develops the capacity to become long after that leader has departed.
This essay explores that possibility through the lens of educational leadership, institutional development, human agency, and the continuing relationship between stability and change. It draws upon several decades of professional experience, the practical realities of building schools, and a conversation that began with an established philosophy of leadership but gradually developed into an examination of the very meaning of institutional success.
I. The Individual and the Institution: Two Forms of Integrity
A familiar expression tells us that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Within an institution, this often appears self-evident. A school is more than its individual teachers, administrators, students, and families. Through their interactions, something emerges that none could independently create: a community with a particular culture, identity, history, and sense of purpose. These collective qualities matter because they establish the conditions through which people experience belonging, develop relationships, and accomplish things beyond their individual capacities. They also create a continuity that can endure beyond the presence of any particular member of the community.
But the expression deserves an important qualification.
The whole may be greater than the sum of its parts, but each part is also greater than the whole in the context of its own individual identity.
A teacher is not merely a teacher, a student is not simply a student, and an administrator cannot be reduced to a position within an organizational chart. Each person brings an identity, history, imagination, set of aspirations, and capacity for development that extends beyond the boundaries of the institution. An organization may contribute enormously to an individual’s growth, but it does not own that development. Nor does it possess an exclusive claim over the individual’s future. Equally, no individual can claim ownership of the institution simply by virtue of their contribution to it, regardless of how significant that contribution may have been.
The institution possesses its own integrity, arising from the accumulated relationships, experiences, traditions, expectations, and commitments of its community. This creates a relationship in which neither party can reasonably be reduced to an instrument of the other. The organization is not simply a vehicle for individual ambition, and the individual is not merely a resource to be employed in pursuit of organizational objectives. Both possess independent significance, both can contribute to the development of the other, and both have responsibilities arising from that relationship.
An individual entering a community accepts certain obligations toward its members and its collective purpose. Freedom to exercise agency does not remove those obligations. Indeed, meaningful agency requires an understanding of responsibility, consequences, and the interests of others. Similarly, an institution that claims to value human development must recognize that the interests and aspirations of individuals will not always remain aligned with its immediate needs. Sometimes a person’s development will lead them toward a different role, organization, profession, or purpose. Rather than viewing this automatically as a failure of retention or loyalty, we might recognize it as one possible expression of successful development.
An institution may have contributed to the discovery of capacities that ultimately carry someone beyond it. That achievement remains meaningful even after the individual’s departure, just as the institution’s own achievements remain meaningful beyond the participation of any one individual.
An institution and its people can enrich one another without possessing one another.
This principle provides an essential foundation for understanding leadership as stewardship rather than ownership. It also helps establish the relationship between individual agency and institutional responsibility, neither of which can flourish indefinitely at the expense of the other.
II. Agency and Purpose: The Development of Human Possibility
The phrase Agency & Purpose has remained central to the educational leader’s philosophy through years of teaching, school leadership, and institutional development in Canada and Japan. Its significance extends well beyond conventional approaches to student-centred education, particularly those that interpret agency primarily through individual choice, preference, or freedom from externally imposed expectations.
Agency is sometimes treated as a matter of giving individuals greater freedom to select activities, pursue interests, or participate in decisions. But genuine agency is considerably more substantial. It involves developing the capacity to recognize possibilities, exercise judgment, accept responsibility, and act meaningfully in circumstances where the appropriate path may not yet be clear. Purpose provides a complementary dimension. Without purpose, agency risks becoming little more than the freedom to pursue immediate preferences; without agency, purpose can become something externally assigned, producing compliance rather than authentic commitment. Together, they suggest an understanding of education and leadership centred on the development of people capable of discovering and directing their own lives.
This distinction becomes especially meaningful when applied to adults within an institution. Consider a teacher who enters a school with considerable technical competence but limited confidence in their capacity for leadership. Through opportunities to participate in decision-making, solve unfamiliar problems, collaborate with colleagues, and assume responsibility, that teacher may discover capacities previously unrecognized. The teacher might subsequently become a coordinator, principal, curriculum specialist, entrepreneur, or leader in an entirely different field. From a narrow organizational perspective, the value of that development might be measured by the contribution the person makes while employed. From a developmental perspective, however, the achievement is considerably greater: a human being has discovered additional dimensions of their own possibility.
This understanding has important consequences for leadership. A leader genuinely committed to developing agency must be prepared to relinquish control, share responsibility, tolerate independent judgment, and sometimes accept decisions that differ from personal preferences. It also means accepting that the people we develop may eventually pursue ambitions that take them beyond the institution in which those capabilities emerged. Their departure need not diminish the value of the developmental relationship. Indeed, the confidence to pursue an independent direction may itself represent one of its most meaningful achievements.
Yet such a philosophy cannot be confused with the abandonment of standards or organizational responsibility. Institutions are communities of mutual obligation, and the development of one individual’s agency cannot be allowed to undermine the legitimate rights, responsibilities, or opportunities of others. A teacher who exercises professional independence must also remain accountable for the quality of teaching, the welfare of students, and the obligations inherent in belonging to a professional community. A leader who encourages initiative must likewise establish expectations through which that initiative can be exercised responsibly.
Agency without accountability risks becoming entitlement. Accountability without agency risks becoming obedience.
A healthy institution must cultivate both, not as opposing pressures that require an uneasy compromise, but as complementary expressions of responsible participation. Genuine agency is strengthened, rather than weakened, by the development of judgment and an understanding of consequences. Similarly, accountability becomes more meaningful when individuals understand and accept the purposes it is intended to serve.
III. Building a School Is Not the Same as Building Its Capacity to Endure
The establishment of One World International School Osaka offers a concrete example of the relationship between institutional growth and institutional development. When the school opened in August 2023, it welcomed just 22 students. By October 2026, enrolment had grown to more than 350. Those numbers represent a considerable organizational achievement, reflecting the transformation of an initial educational proposition into an operating school with multiple divisions, expanding academic programmes, developing facilities, and an increasingly complex community.
Yet enrolment growth alone tells us relatively little about institutional maturity. A school of 22 students can operate through direct relationships, informal communication, and the constant involvement of a small number of individuals. A school of more than 350 cannot function effectively on precisely the same assumptions. Its systems of communication, leadership, student support, safeguarding, professional development, curriculum coordination, and operational accountability must become more sophisticated. The school is not simply getting bigger. It is becoming different, and the methods that served it well in its infancy must be reconsidered in light of its emerging responsibilities.
This challenge is familiar from earlier professional experiences, including the development of educational institutions in Vancouver and leadership at Tsukuba International School, where enrolment grew from approximately 130 to 240 students. In each setting, growth brought opportunities alongside demands that were not necessarily apparent at the outset. The informal flexibility that can make a small organization effective may eventually create uncertainty in a larger one, while structures introduced to manage increased complexity can themselves become obstacles if they are allowed to suppress initiative or replace judgment with routine compliance.
The experience of establishing OWIS Osaka illustrates this tension particularly well because the institution has had to develop its culture and systems while simultaneously educating children every day. There is no opportunity to suspend school operations while organizational structures are reconsidered. The school must continue functioning even as its responsibilities, expectations, and capacities evolve. In this environment, leadership requires an ability to distinguish between practices that remain effective, practices that need refinement, and assumptions that may no longer be appropriate.
An instructive example emerged in October 2026 through the seemingly ordinary matter of managing staff absences. As the school grew, coordinating absences and substitute coverage became increasingly complicated. Teachers might contact several people, academic leaders and colleagues might independently attempt to arrange coverage, and well-intentioned efforts could produce overlapping conversations, unclear responsibilities, or uncertainty about which arrangements had actually been confirmed. The immediate challenge appeared operational: ensuring that every class had appropriate supervision and that learning could continue. The deeper issue, however, concerned organizational design. How should an institution distribute responsibility so that collective participation does not produce fragmented accountability?
A proposed absence-management framework emerged around a deceptively simple principle: One point of coordination. Many points of contribution. Under the proposed model, an identified coordinator would maintain responsibility for the overall picture while drawing on the knowledge, availability, and judgment of colleagues, HR, and the school leadership team. Responsibility would be clarified without suppressing collaboration, and organizational coherence would be strengthened without requiring every decision to be made by a single person.
Importantly, the framework was presented as a discovery-stage discussion rather than an already perfected policy. The institution was being invited to examine a weakness in its existing arrangements, consider a different approach, assess possible consequences, and develop a more coherent response. An apparently minor operational difficulty had become an opportunity for institutional development.
This example illustrates a broader principle. Institutional learning is not confined to academic innovation or grand strategic initiatives. It occurs wherever experience leads a community to reconsider how it works, and where that reconsideration produces a deeper understanding of the conditions necessary for success. A school becomes more mature not simply because it accumulates procedures, but because it becomes increasingly capable of questioning, improving, and adapting them.
IV. Developing People Who May Eventually Lead Without Us
Institutional leadership is perhaps most clearly tested during succession. Founders often occupy an unusual position within organizations, carrying an intimate understanding of the original vision, the decisions that shaped development, the relationships established along the way, and the compromises made under particular circumstances. Much of that knowledge is tacit, residing in memory, judgment, and experience rather than in written policy. This can make a founding leader extraordinarily useful during an institution’s early development, but it can also create an unintended dependency.
The more effectively an institution relies on the founder’s ability to anticipate problems, connect relationships, and solve emerging difficulties, the more difficult it may become for others to develop those same capabilities. An organization can appear remarkably successful while remaining disproportionately dependent upon one individual’s presence. Consequently, the test of institutional maturity is not simply whether its founder can manage complexity, but whether the institution has developed sufficient collective capability to manage that complexity independently.
The leadership transition at OWIS Osaka offers an important illustration. A founding faculty member began at the school as a Grade 4 teacher and subsequently progressed into the position of Vice Principal, contributing to educational and operational development, student support, professional relationships, and the emerging structure of the school. His work in establishing a pastoral care approach grounded in restorative practices provides a particularly relevant example of individual initiative becoming institutional capability. Rather than merely administering inherited arrangements, he contributed to developing a structure through which the school could approach student behaviour, relationships, and community responsibility.
With the founding Head of School’s departure at the end of October 2026, the Vice Principal is positioned to serve as Acting Head. This progression has significance beyond an individual career advancement. An institution established through the leadership of one person has cultivated another individual with the capacity to assume responsibility for its continuity. The transition will undoubtedly bring new challenges, and its ultimate effectiveness must be judged through experience rather than assumed in advance. Nevertheless, the essential developmental principle is visible: leadership capacity is beginning to move beyond the founding leader.
The successor need not become a reproduction of the founder. His strengths, experiences, professional relationships, and approaches to problem-solving will differ from those of his predecessor, and those differences should not automatically be viewed as threats to institutional identity. They may instead provide important opportunities for further development. Indeed, an institution incapable of accommodating a successor’s distinct personality and judgment may not have developed much beyond dependence on its original leader.
Here the relationship between agency and stewardship becomes particularly clear. The departing leader has a responsibility to support continuity, preserve institutional knowledge, and help establish the conditions for successful succession. But responsible succession also requires making space for the next leader to exercise genuine agency, even when that agency produces decisions the founder might not have made.
The objective is not to leave behind an institution that continues to make the same decisions. It is to leave behind an institution capable of making sound decisions when faced with circumstances its founder never encountered.
That may be one of the most meaningful measures of enduring leadership, particularly when the institution’s future depends not upon preserving a particular personality or set of practices, but upon sustaining the collective judgment that allows its identity and purpose to continue developing.
V. The Paradox of Maintenance and Development
Some people find professional fulfilment in maintaining established systems, preserving continuity, and ensuring that an organization reliably performs its existing functions. Others are drawn more strongly toward situations involving development, uncertainty, and unrealized possibility. Both dispositions have value, although they can produce markedly different understandings of what makes professional work meaningful.
Over a career spanning several decades, the educational leader has repeatedly gravitated toward building and developing educational institutions. From earlier work in Japan and Canada to school leadership at Tsukuba and the founding of OWIS Osaka, a recurring attraction has been the opportunity to establish something, improve something, and work toward goals that have not yet been achieved. The forthcoming role as founding Center Director for CIEE Osaka continues that pattern. The attraction is not simply to novelty, but to the possibility of transforming circumstances through the discovery and development of capacities that may not yet be fully recognized.
This disposition invites an important distinction. The frustration associated with maintenance is not necessarily a rejection of discipline, routine, or institutional stability. Rather, it arises when maintenance becomes an end in itself. An institution can become so committed to preserving its existing arrangements that it gradually loses the capacity to recognize emerging possibilities. Procedures originally developed to solve problems may eventually become obstacles to solving new ones, while professional expectations that once encouraged excellence may harden into conventions that discourage experimentation. Successful practices may even become institutional traditions long after the circumstances that made them successful have changed.
Yet it would be a mistake to regard maintenance as inherently inferior to development. A reliable timetable, effective safeguarding practices, financial discipline, consistent communication, and coherent curriculum structures create the stability that allows an educational community to function. Without such foundations, innovation can become disruptive rather than productive. Students, families, and colleagues should not bear the costs of unnecessary experimentation simply because their leaders prefer novelty. There is considerable wisdom in the capacity to recognize when something works and deserves to be protected.
The challenge, therefore, is not to choose development over maintenance, but to ensure that maintenance preserves the conditions necessary for meaningful renewal. Stability must provide a foundation for development without becoming an argument against it, just as innovation must contribute to the institution’s effectiveness rather than merely satisfying an appetite for change.
This introduces a personal challenge for developmental leaders. If a leader derives energy from building and transforming organizations, how can that leader ensure that the institution’s future capacity for growth does not remain dependent on the leader’s own appetite for development? The answer cannot simply be to recruit more people with identical dispositions. Institutions need individuals who find satisfaction in stability and continuity just as they need those energized by experimentation. The task is to create a culture in which both orientations contribute to a shared capacity for renewal.
The person who maintains an effective system must feel authorized to question its continued relevance. The person who proposes a new approach must accept responsibility for demonstrating its value. Neither temperament should hold exclusive authority over the institution’s future.
Continuity and renewal are not opposing purposes. Properly understood, each makes the other possible.
VI. The Zeitgeist: When Yesterday’s Excellence Becomes Tomorrow’s Limitation
Every institution exists within a particular historical, cultural, and intellectual environment. Its founding principles, organizational assumptions, and definitions of success are influenced by the conditions of its time. These influences constitute part of its Zeitgeist, shaping not only what the institution seeks to achieve but also what it understands achievement to mean.
The International Baccalaureate offers an instructive example. The IB developed an influential educational philosophy emphasizing international-mindedness, inquiry, conceptual understanding, and an approach to education that extends beyond narrow examinations of factual knowledge. These ideas have made important contributions to international education, encouraging schools to consider the relationships between knowledge, understanding, experience, and the development of young people as thoughtful participants in an interconnected world.
Yet the institutionalization of a successful educational philosophy inevitably introduces tensions. As frameworks mature, they accumulate documentation, standards, authorization processes, professional development structures, and mechanisms intended to preserve consistency. Such structures can protect educational quality and establish confidence across different schools and national contexts, but they can also create rigidity. At what point does a framework designed to encourage inquiry become overly prescriptive about how inquiry must be demonstrated? At what point does the protection of programme integrity begin to privilege compliance over educational imagination? And how does an organization distinguish between maintaining the principles that make its approach valuable and preserving practices that reflect the circumstances of an earlier era?
These are not arguments that the IB has ceased to innovate. Its curriculum reviews, including its examination of post-16 programmes, demonstrate formal mechanisms for development. The concern is more fundamental: whether an established institution can examine the assumptions upon which its own success depends, or whether it becomes primarily concerned with refining the existing expression of those assumptions.
The difference is consequential. An institution may improve the effectiveness of its procedures while leaving its fundamental model unquestioned. This distinction echoes Chris Argyris’s concept of double-loop learning. In conventional problem-solving, an organization detects an error and corrects its actions. In double-loop learning, it also examines the assumptions, objectives, and governing values that produced those actions. The first asks whether we are doing things correctly. The second asks whether we are doing the right things, and why we have defined them as right in the first place.
Both forms of learning are necessary, but an institution that practises only the first may become exceptionally efficient at achieving objectives that no longer adequately reflect the world around it. This is particularly relevant to education amid developments in artificial intelligence, changing relationships between knowledge and employment, increasingly diverse student pathways, and the growing importance of independent judgment. Educational institutions cannot assume that yesterday’s indicators of success will remain sufficient measures of tomorrow’s educational value.
There is a further complication. Institutions sometimes invoke agency while adopting interpretations that confuse independent judgment with personal preference, or meaningful choice with the avoidance of difficulty. In such circumstances, a philosophy originally intended to strengthen human capability can inadvertently weaken the discipline, persistence, and intellectual resilience upon which authentic agency depends. The solution is not to reject the underlying philosophy, but to examine whether its implementation continues to serve the purpose for which it was developed.
The very success of a model can make this examination difficult. Familiar concepts acquire institutional authority, professional communities develop common languages and practices around them, and questioning established interpretations may be perceived as a challenge to the institution itself. Yet a philosophy genuinely committed to inquiry should surely be capable of directing that inquiry toward its own assumptions.
The challenge is not simply to remain relevant within a changing world, but to retain the capacity to reconsider what relevance itself requires.
VII. Optimization Reconsidered: Success Under Conditions Not Yet Encountered
This discussion brings us to the meaning of optimization. In conventional organizational practice, optimization is often understood as improving efficiency or effectiveness within an established system. Processes are refined, resources allocated more efficiently, and performance measured against predetermined objectives. Such work is valuable, but it does not capture the fuller meaning intended here.
Optimization can also describe the development of an institution’s capacity to take what has proved successful in one set of circumstances and adapt it to succeed in circumstances not yet encountered. This is a considerably more ambitious proposition because it requires distinguishing between a successful practice and the underlying conditions that made that practice successful.
A particular school, for example, may develop outstanding collaborative teaching practices through specific meeting schedules, leadership arrangements, and professional development activities. When that school grows or its circumstances change, those arrangements may no longer function as effectively. The institution can attempt to preserve the original practices, perhaps becoming increasingly frustrated as their effectiveness diminishes, or it can examine the principles responsible for their original success: professional trust, shared responsibility, meaningful communication, sufficient time for collaboration, and the ability to exercise informed judgment. Those principles might then be expressed through entirely different structures appropriate to the changed circumstances.
The objective is not replication. It is adaptation grounded in understanding.
This resembles what organizational theorists describe as dynamic capabilities: the ability of an institution to recognize changing conditions, mobilize resources, and reconfigure itself in response to new possibilities and demands. It also reflects James G. March’s distinction between exploiting existing knowledge and exploring new possibilities. An institution that relies exclusively on established knowledge may become highly effective within familiar conditions while losing the flexibility necessary for unfamiliar ones. Conversely, an institution that pursues novelty without retaining what it has learned may repeatedly expend energy rediscovering lessons it should already understand.
The challenge is to establish an ongoing relationship between the two. Past success becomes a source of knowledge rather than an arrangement to be preserved indefinitely, while new experience becomes an opportunity to test, revise, and expand that knowledge. In this way, the institution’s experience contributes not simply to its accumulated competence but to its capacity for further development.
This does not guarantee that an institution will always succeed. Novel situations may expose weaknesses that existing experience cannot resolve. Some experiments will fail, and some apparently successful adaptations will produce unintended consequences. But an institution can become increasingly sophisticated in how it confronts these uncertainties. It can improve its ability to recognize assumptions, evaluate evidence, identify emerging opportunities, distribute judgment, learn from failure, and adapt without losing sight of its purpose.
In this understanding, optimization is not a final condition. It is a continually developing organizational capability through which the institution becomes increasingly able to achieve meaningful success amid changing circumstances.
VIII. The Personal Dimension: Learning to Adapt Without Losing Direction
The principle is not confined to institutions. It also appears in the ways individuals navigate their own lives, particularly when experience, purpose, and judgment must be brought together in unfamiliar circumstances.
In October 2026, the educator completed a motorcycle journey through Hokkaido with three friends whose relationships extended back to their secondary-school years in British Columbia. Their route involved considerable distances, changing weather, cold conditions, unfamiliar roads, and at least one necessary adjustment following an incident on a mountain pass. The riders had destinations and plans, but the journey required continual attention to circumstances that could not be fully anticipated. Preparation and experience mattered, but so did the willingness to revise decisions in response to what they encountered.
There is a modest but useful analogy here. A successful journey is not necessarily one in which every planned road is followed. It is one in which preparation, experience, judgment, and adaptability allow the travellers to continue meaningfully toward their objectives while responding responsibly to the realities they encounter. The route is provisional, while the underlying purpose provides direction. Too rigid an attachment to the original plan can become dangerous; too little commitment to direction can make the journey incoherent. Learning involves understanding when to preserve a course and when to change it.
A similar principle applies across the broader arc of a professional life. The decision to leave OWIS Osaka and take on the founding leadership of CIEE Osaka represents more than a change of employment. It creates another opportunity to apply accumulated experience in a substantially different organizational environment. CIEE is not an international school. Its programmes, corporate structures, operational obligations, participants, and stakeholder relationships present a different set of circumstances. Experience provides useful knowledge, but it cannot simply be reproduced unchanged.
The challenge is to identify the underlying principles that have proved valuableโagency, purpose, accountability, community, and institutional integrityโand discover how they can be effectively expressed in a new context. Within CIEE, established procedures, academic standards, safeguarding responsibilities, and financial controls will remain essential. But the development of an Osaka centre also creates opportunities for local judgment, experimentation, partnership, and organizational learning.
The most interesting possibility is not simply that the new centre will successfully implement established practices, but that its development may produce insights and approaches from which the wider organization can learn. A centre established within an international network can benefit from the experience and accumulated knowledge of that network while contributing new perspectives arising from its particular circumstances. Its success may therefore be measured not only by the quality of its local operations but also by the extent to which those operations enrich the collective capabilities of the larger institution.
In that sense, the move offers a practical test of the philosophy explored in this essay. Can a new institution combine inherited knowledge with locally developed capabilities in ways that enrich both? Can its people exercise meaningful agency within a coherent organizational framework? And can the experience of building something new contribute to the continuing development of the larger organization?
These questions cannot be answered in advance. They must be answered through experience, and the answers themselves may require reconsidering what success was originally expected to mean.
IX. Creating an Institution That Can Learn Without Its Founder
Perhaps the most difficult question concerns the sustainability of renewal itself. A visionary leader may identify opportunities, challenge assumptions, encourage experimentation, and energize others through a persistent commitment to development. Such leadership can be extraordinarily effective, particularly during an institution’s formative stages. But it is not enough.
If the institution’s capacity to evolve depends entirely upon the founder’s energy, imagination, or willingness to challenge convention, then its capacity for renewal remains vulnerable. It has not yet become an institutional capability. Instead, it remains an extension of a particular individual’s strengths and preferences, however valuable those qualities may be.
For renewal to endure, it must be embedded in the relationships, expectations, structures, and habits through which the community operates. People must be encouraged to identify problems before they become crises and must have opportunities to challenge established practices without automatically being regarded as disloyal. They must possess the information and authority necessary to exercise responsible judgment, while leadership development must extend beyond preparing individuals to occupy existing positions. It must also cultivate their capacity to rethink the positions, responsibilities, and structures themselves.
Institutional knowledge must be preserved in forms that others can access, evaluate, and adapt. The organization must learn to recognize the difference between a challenge to its underlying purpose and a challenge to one historically contingent expression of that purpose. Such distinctions are not always easy, especially when particular practices have become closely associated with the institution’s identity or the achievements of respected leaders.
These conditions cannot be sustained through slogans alone. They require practical commitments. Time must be allocated for reflection, decision-making must be sufficiently transparent for people to understand how judgments are reached, and mistakes must be examined constructively without abandoning accountability. Success must be evaluated not only by immediate outcomes but also by what has been learned and what future capabilities have been developed. Individuals must feel that their contributions matter, not simply because they fulfil assigned responsibilities, but because their experience and judgment can influence how the institution understands and pursues its purpose.
There must also be limits. Not every experiment is justified, nor can every expression of individual agency be accommodated. The safety and dignity of students, staff, and families cannot be treated as negotiable in pursuit of institutional innovation. An organization needs ethical commitments that remain sufficiently stable to provide continuity through change. Similarly, a culture of renewal must guard against change for its own sake. Novelty can become as doctrinaire as tradition, and an institution that compulsively reinvents itself may destroy the trust, competence, and accumulated wisdom that enable it to improve.
The objective is not continuous disruption. It is continuous learning, expressed through change when change is warranted and through intelligent preservation when continuity remains valuable.
This distinction places an unusually demanding responsibility upon leadership. Leaders must be prepared to question practices they helped create, recognize when their own preferences are no longer appropriate, and accept that future members of the community may develop better ways of achieving its purposes. Indeed, those future members may come to understand the institution’s possibilities more fully than its founders did.
A leader genuinely committed to institutional learning must welcome that prospect. It is perhaps the clearest demonstration that the institution has developed a life and capacity beyond the person who first helped shape it.
X. Beyond the Goalposts: Learning as the Highest Form of Optimization
We return, finally, to the question with which this exploration began.
Where do we place the goalposts?
If we measure leadership by immediate institutional success, we may reward efficiency, growth, and operational performance. If we measure leadership by the development of individuals, we may emphasize agency, confidence, professional competence, and personal fulfilment. If we measure leadership by institutional continuity, we may prioritize culture, succession, organizational coherence, and the preservation of shared values. Each perspective offers something important, but none is sufficient on its own.
The more interesting possibility is to understand these achievements as parts of a dynamic relationship. Individuals develop through their participation in communities, and their growth contributes to the community’s evolving capacities. The community, enriched through these contributions, creates new opportunities for others to develop. Some individuals eventually depart, carrying knowledge, experience, and confidence into other environments, while others remain and become stewards of the institution’s continuing development. New people arrive with experiences and perspectives that challenge established assumptions, and the community itself encounters circumstances that demand new ways of thinking.
Through these interactions, the institution acquires capabilities that could not necessarily have been anticipated at its founding. It learns to reconsider its practices, refine its judgments, redefine its objectives, and respond to emerging challenges without automatically surrendering the principles that make its existence meaningful. The collective becomes enriched through the development of its members, and that enrichment creates conditions through which subsequent members may discover possibilities unavailable to those who came before them.
At its best, this process becomes self-renewing.
It is not without conflict, disappointment, or failure. Human interests and institutional priorities will sometimes diverge. Resources will be limited, and decisions will involve competing responsibilities and imperfect knowledge. There will be occasions when continuity must take precedence over innovation, just as there will be moments when established arrangements must be challenged despite the discomfort that such challenges create.
But a mature institution need not eliminate these tensions to develop successfully. It must become increasingly capable of understanding and navigating them. Its effectiveness should therefore be judged not solely by the outcomes it achieves under familiar circumstances, but also by the quality of its collective judgment when those circumstances change.
And this brings us to the central proposition:
The highest form of institutional optimization may be the optimization of its capacity to learn.
Not simply to accumulate information, refine existing systems, or become more efficient at achieving established objectives. Rather, it is to develop the collective intelligence, individual agency, institutional humility, and adaptive judgment necessary to recognize when its understanding is incomplete, and to respond by discovering something new.
Such an institution does not abandon its identity. It deepens its understanding of that identity through experience, preserving what remains essential while allowing the expression of its values and purposes to evolve. It values individuals without confusing their worth with their organizational roles, develops leaders without insisting that their aspirations remain confined within their own boundaries, and maintains standards without treating existing practices as sacred.
Importantly, it understands that a successful past is not a guarantee of a successful future. The past is a valuable source of knowledge, but knowledge must remain open to interpretation, examination, and application in circumstances that may differ fundamentally from those in which it was acquired. The ability to adapt that knowledge becomes one of the institution’s most important capabilities.
Perhaps the most enduring legacy of leadership is therefore not the institution we leave behind in any particular form, nor even the people we have directly influenced along the way. It is the capacity we leave within that institution to continue questioning, discovering, developing, and becoming. It is the creation of an environment in which individuals are encouraged to recognize their own possibilities while contributing to a collective purpose that is itself capable of growth.
Ultimately, the goalposts themselves must remain open to examination. For an institution whose purpose includes the development of human possibility, no single historical definition of excellence can reasonably be regarded as final. Its achievements matter, its identity matters, and its people matter. But beyond all of these lies its capacity to recognize possibilities not yet imagined and to develop the judgment necessary to pursue them responsibly.
The institution develops its people. Its people develop the institution. And through that relationship, both develop the capacity to become more than either could have anticipated.
That may be the fullest expression of Agency & Purpose: not a fixed destination, but a continuing relationship between individual realization and collective development, grounded in mutual responsibility and sustained through an enduring capacity to learn.
And perhaps the most meaningful measure of an institution’s success is not simply what it has accomplished, but whether it has learned how to keep learning.
Intellectual Foundations and Further Reading
This essay emerged from an original dialogue rather than an attempt to reproduce an established leadership model. Several thinkers provide useful points of comparison.
John C. Maxwell, The 5 Levels of Leadership, offers a framework for understanding leadership as influence, achievement, the development of others, and an enduring legacy. The essay begins with Maxwell’s philosophy but questions whether leadership development, considered independently of institutional learning and human agency, necessarily constitutes its highest expression.
Chris Argyris, Double Loop Learning in Organizations (1977), explores the importance of examining an organization’s underlying assumptions rather than merely correcting actions within an established framework. This distinction is particularly relevant to the capacity of successful institutions to reconsider the principles and objectives through which they define success.
James G. March, Exploration and Exploitation in Organizational Learning (1991), examines the organizational tension between refining established knowledge and exploring unfamiliar possibilities. His work provides a useful theoretical context for the relationship between continuity, institutional memory, and renewal.
David J. Teece, Explicating Dynamic Capabilities (2007), explores how organizations recognize changing circumstances, mobilize resources, and transform their capabilities. This perspective contributes to the broader understanding of optimization as adaptive capacity rather than the perfection of existing arrangements.
Peter Senge, The Fifth Discipline (1990), offers a framework for understanding learning organizations through systems thinking, shared vision, collective learning, and the continual examination of mental models. His work provides another useful connection to the proposition that institutional development is fundamentally dependent upon the development of collective learning capabilities.
These frameworks illuminate aspects of the argument, but the central propositionโthat institutional optimization ultimately depends upon the optimization of the institution’s capacity to learnโemerged from the dialogue underlying this essay.
