What is it like to send your child to The Island School? Brooke Cheley-Klebe, a Spring 2025 Semester Parent, shares her experience.

As parents, we are conditioned to believe that vigilance is the key to raising resilient, successful children. We track their schedules, know their teachers’ names, monitor their grades, and keep tabs on their whereabouts with the ease of a text. We troubleshoot, problem-solve, and advocate. But at some point, we have to step back, trust, and be left behind.  

That moment came for me when my middle daughter, Kate, set her sights on attending the Island School for a semester. She drove the entire process, from researching the program to pouring herself into the application. When she was accepted, we celebrated, but it wasn’t long before the reality of what it meant set in. 

Suddenly, I had to reckon with the fact that I wouldn’t know every detail of her days. I wouldn’t have instant access to her daily happenings, her feelings, or even her location. The anxiety set in. I didn’t personally know the staff, their safety procedures, or even the Bahamas itself. I had no control over whether she was eating well or wearing sunscreen. I was trusting this school with my precious teenager. It was an unsettling realization, one that made me question how comfortable I had become in knowing and managing. 

And yet, isn’t this what we raise them for? Stepping back requires more than just intention–it requires action. And in this case, that meant embracing the reality of what the Island School experience would bring. 

Jumping In to The Island School

It’s a huge commitment. Leaving the comforts and luxuries of home for an extended time. No phones. No internet. One twenty-minute call home per week. Letters take three to five weeks to arrive. No packages, as part of their sustainability model. Photos are posted, but they’re just glimpses of the bigger story.    

Kate kept saying, “It’s just camp times three.” It would be longer, more immersive, and a bigger step toward independence. Yet, nothing quite prepares you for the reality of such limited communication for an extended time. 

It feels like a big deal because it is a big deal. 

She jumped in gleefully. This is the same girl who dramatically lamented the loss of TikTok in the middle of a scroll, who loves her high school friends, our family, and our new puppy. Yet, she set it all down with grace and ran toward an island adventure. 

I am so proud of her. I will gladly trust others to influence her. And I will settle, contentedly, into being left behind. It’s not always easy, but this is what we raise them for. To step out boldly into the world, to take on new challenges, and to embrace adventure. We pour everything into them, knowing that one day, they’ll walk forward without looking back. And when they do, we’ll be here, cheering them on, holding onto the memories, and knowing deep down that this was always the goal. 

The Days in Between  

Her first twenty-minute call flew by so quickly. As she shared the beauty of where she was, the people that she had connected with, and the experiences she had already had, I felt a deep sense of pride and reassurance. Her voice was light, filled with excitement, and I could hear the confidence in her words. She wasn’t just adapting. She was thriving. That call, brief as it was, told me everything I needed to know. 

I started to settle into her absence in our day-to-day life. Her weekly phone call marked a small but significant moment where she read from her “place book,” trying to recount everything that’s happened over the past week. As the weeks go by, friends drift in and out of the background, saying hello on the phone, and sometimes, when we are not finished yet, she says, “Let’s wrap this up so I can call my friends.” She’d found a sense of place. She’d settled in. 

I kept up with the photos posted online and the updates from school, and I came to accept that this is her experience, and I’m on the sidelines. Life moves quickly, just as I knew it would, and there was a new rhythm at home, one that no longer included Kate.  

There is something uniquely powerful about finding a sense of place beyond your family about fully joining a community and becoming an active participant in shaping its culture. These formative experiences often happen only when support systems, digital devices, and everyday distractions are stripped away. When young people are given the space to navigate relationships, challenges, and quiet reflection without immediate adult intervention, something transformational occurs. 

Family Weekend  

The unfolding of Family Weekend is simply amazing. Although Eleuthera is not the quickest or easiest place to reach, that feels right; most paradises aren’t. The anticipation of finally seeing Kate was overwhelming, and the welcome hug may be the best I’ve ever received. 

We began exploring as she gave us a tour of every nook. Seeing the place she now called home was magical, and I could feel her wishing that I take it all in, so that when she returns home, I’ll better understand the sadness she’ll feel at having to leave it behind. 

What amazes me is how quickly we become part of this community; working dish crew, doing push-ups when we’re late to circle, joining the run/swim workouts, jumping off platforms. The list goes on.  

The kids became our teachers. They shared their experiences, the knowledge they’ve gained, new passions they’ve discovered, and the mantras they now live by. They model what it means to be fully present, and how to find peace in not always knowing what comes next. 

I was struck by the uniqueness of this group—the kids who were willing to put their phones away, step out of their established friend groups and sports teams, and live in bunk rooms, eating camp food, for 100 days. Equally inspiring are the parents who have accepted the absence of regular communication, relinquished the desire to control or stay constantly informed, and chosen something different for their teenagers for those same 100 days. I feel incredibly grateful to be among them. 

I got a text from work: “I hope you’re enjoying your vacation.” It didn’t feel like a vacation, but something far more meaningful. In that moment, I caught a glimpse of what Kate will feel when she returns home and tries to explain all of this. 

The excitement of having us there fades a bit over the weekend, and soon she’s eager to return to her adventures and friends without us. I find myself working through the quiet reality of being needed less. There’s a bittersweet mix of sadness and satisfaction in letting go. 

Coming Home

We picked up a little puddle of Kate at the airport; exhausted from wrapping up her time away and the long journey home. It’s a conflicting feeling: joy at having her back with us, mixed with the ache of knowing how deeply she misses the place she had come to call home. I can’t believe 100 days have passed and are now behind her, as I know she cannot either. 

I’ve prepared myself to be an anchor during this transition. To hold space for the big feelings. To let her complain, for a while, that Colorado’s brisk, dry air is the worst. To accept that she may not immediately appreciate the comforts and space of home. I’m ready to be patient—to let the stories trickle out over time, to keep listening even when others might grow tired, to gently remind her that what she’s feeling is normal and temporary, and to offer support however I can. 

I am struck by the profound importance of extended childhood experiences that happen outside the presence of parents. What worries me is how few families today seem to prioritize them. These experiences aren’t something that can be abbreviated or squeezed into a weekend. We’ve grown accustomed to shortcuts and quick fixes, but the building of character simply cannot be rushed. Meaningful friendships take time to marinate. The longer and more immersive the experience, the deeper the impact. 

That’s why I’m especially grateful we made the investment in this one. 

Now, we step into the next phase; not an ending, but a continuation. For a moment, I even find comfort in her electronics, as they reconnect her with friends scattered across the world. She’s not reaching for distraction, but for connection. And I welcome home a new version of Kate: one who walks a little taller, who has deeply loved a far-off community, who sees and does things differently now, and who has been forever changed by something larger than herself—her cherished semester at The Island School.