Editing Iqaluit for a Boy

Every morning in Iqaluit, the crisp Arctic air fills my lungs as I walk to school. It’s hard to believe how much has changed in the past thirty years. My parents often tell me how schools used to feel like boxes, trapping students in stale classrooms with no windows to the world outside. For me, school feels entirely different, alive, connected, and purposeful. At the Montessori Learning School, our education isn’t just about passing tests. It’s about thriving, growing, and understanding the world around us.
The day usually begins with yoga. We roll out our mats under the open sky, the horizon stretching endlessly around us. The movements warm our muscles, but it’s the stillness that stays with me. Breathing in sync with my classmates, I feel a calmness that follows me through the rest of the day. The teachers tell us it’s about more than flexibility; it’s about resilience and focus. And I believe them. I’ve noticed how much clearer my mind feels, how I can sit through challenging lessons without getting overwhelmed. 
After yoga, we head out for the morning’s lessons. Today, it’s science and geography combined. Bundled in layers against the cold, we hike to a nearby ridge, notebooks and measuring tools in hand. This kind of learning feels real. We measure snowpack thickness to analyze climate patterns, sketch the landforms to study topography, and observe the movements of wildlife. Seeing the data firsthand makes it easier to understand. It’s not just numbers on a page; it’s life unfolding around us. As I map the elevation of the ridge, I catch sight of an Arctic fox darting across the tundra, its white coat blending perfectly with the snow. Moments like this remind me of why I love this way of learning, it’s alive, just like the land we’re learning about.
Back at school, the warmth of the building is a welcome contrast to the cold outside. By lunchtime, the cafeteria is filled with energy. The scent of freshly baked bannock fills the air, and conversations flow easily between friends. This is one of my favorite parts of the day, sharing a meal with classmates. It feels like more than just eating; it’s a chance to connect, to laugh, and to hear about each other’s morning adventures. Some of my friends share stories about spotting ptarmigans during the hike, while others joke about slipping on the icy trails. The sense of community here is strong, and it makes the school feel like a second home.
In the afternoon, we dive into a stress management workshop led by a guest speaker. Today, it’s an Inuit elder who teaches us traditional breathing techniques. Her calm voice fills the room as we practice deep, rhythmic breathing, and I can feel the tension melting away. She explains how these techniques have been used for generations to navigate the challenges of life in the Arctic. It’s not just about managing stress for exams; it’s about learning to carry yourself with balance and strength, no matter what life throws at you. I think about how useful this will be, not just now, but for the rest of my life.
Later, during our career session, a scientist specializing in renewable energy speaks to our class. She talks about harnessing wind power in the Arctic and how our community could lead the way in sustainable energy solutions. Her passion is infectious, and for the first time, I imagine myself contributing to a field like this. These sessions always leave me inspired. They show us the possibilities beyond school, helping us see the paths we can take to make a difference in the world. It’s not just about finding a career; it’s about finding purpose.
As the school day continues, we move to our creative writing class. Today, it’s held outdoors, in one of our wooden classrooms surrounded by snow. The fire pit in the center crackles softly as we sit on benches, bundled in our warmest clothes, writing about the land around us. I decide to write about the Arctic fox I saw earlier, blending my observations with a bit of imagination. The quietness of the moment, broken only by the occasional pop of the fire, makes it easy to get lost in the flow of words. Writing here feels different, more grounded. It’s as if the land itself is guiding my thoughts.
Walking home later, the crunch of snow under my boots, I can’t help but reflect on how much this school has shaped me. My grades have improved, but it’s not just about academics. I feel healthier, both physically and mentally. The yoga, the workshops, the outdoor learning, they aren’t just part of my routine; they’re part of who I am. School isn’t something I dread anymore; it’s something I look forward to. I feel motivated in ways I never thought possible.
At home, I pull out my tablet to review notes for tomorrow. Our next science project is focused on Arctic wildlife adaptations, and I’m researching the Arctic fox. Tomorrow, we’ll head back outside to connect our findings with real-world observations. It’s empowering to know that what I’m learning matters, not just in the classroom, but out in the world. 
The next day begins with the same chill in the air, but it doesn’t bother me anymore. The routine of bundling up and heading outdoors feels natural now. On the way to school, I pass by our hydroponic gardens, vibrant and green despite the icy landscape. They remind me of how much we can achieve when we work with the environment rather than against it.
The day unfolds much like the last, filled with moments of connection, discovery, and growth. From learning about Arctic ecosystems to practicing mindfulness, every activity feels purposeful. It’s not just about filling my head with knowledge, it’s about shaping who I am. 
By the end of the day, as I sit by the fire pit for one final reflection, I think about the future. Some of my friends dream of staying in Iqaluit, contributing to our community in meaningful ways. Others, like me, hope to explore the world while carrying the lessons of this land with us. Wherever I go, I know I’ll carry the skills and values I’ve learned here. This school hasn’t just prepared me for tests or jobs, it’s prepared me for life.