Summer Break and the Samurai Trail

Arriving in Nagai after a four hour hike

Thank goodness my university doesn't offer summer classes for graduate students, because I would most likely enroll if given the chance. Instead, I get something I probably need even more: a proper school break before the academic calendar resets in August.

April and May were academically intense, even though I intentionally reduced my load to six credits last semester (compared to the nine I took previously). One of the highlights was experiencing my instructor's neuropsychological assessment clinic firsthand—a rare opportunity that brought many of the concepts we had been studying to life.

The reward I promised myself after finals was a trip to Japan with my partner. This wasn't just another vacation. It was my first real holiday in a long time—I usually travel for work or training—and my first international trip with my partner.

What made the journey even more meaningful was the intention behind it.

When we were first getting to know each other, before we had even started dating, I mentioned that I was studying Bushidō, the Way of the Samurai. Without hesitation, he said, "We should walk the Samurai Trail in Japan."

He was referring to the Nakasendō, the historic route that connected Edo (present-day Tokyo) and Kyoto. It was traveled by merchants, pilgrims, government officials, and many samurai, earning it the nickname "the Samurai Trail."

Less than two years later, there we were, flying to Japan and beginning an unforgettable journey through the Japanese Alps. We hiked through mountains where bears still roam, boarded the wrong trains more than once, met wonderful people, soaked in hot springs, and enjoyed some of the most memorable meals of our lives.

Yet what stayed with me most wasn't any single destination—it was the feeling of peace.

The trails were pristine. There was no litter anywhere. Even in crowded train cars, people respected one another by keeping conversations quiet and using earphones instead of playing audio aloud. As someone who is particularly sensitive to noise, that level of consideration brought an unexpected calm to my nervous system. I hadn't realized how much mental space constant noise occupies until I experienced its absence.

I'm already dreaming about our next trip to Japan.

This time, I hope to visit Tsushima Island in Kyushu, where my sensei, Zen Takai, has been teaching Bushidō to students from around the world. It feels like a natural continuation of the path that began with a simple conversation almost two years ago—and a reminder that sometimes the journeys we casually imagine together become the ones that change us the most.