Medicine Was My True Calling

After graduating from university, I joined Aso Shoji and worked in sales. I could have continued down the path of being a company employee for the rest of my life. In fact, from society’s perspective, there was nothing particularly unsatisfactory about the environment or the conditions I was in. Yet somewhere deep inside, I kept asking myself, “Is this really the life I want to live?”
It was around that time that I had the opportunity to visit the rehabilitation department at Iizuka Hospital. The moment I encountered the people working there, the patients, and the atmosphere of the place itself, something inside me became clear.
“Medicine is my true calling.”
That was what I felt.
It was not a logical decision, nor one based on profit or loss. If anything, leaving a stable company could hardly be considered a rational choice. Even so, at that moment, I could see no other path for myself.
After resigning from my job, I volunteered with children with autism while continuing my studies, eventually enrolling at Kawasaki Rehabilitation College, where I obtained my occupational therapist certification.

The medical field was demanding, but it was also deeply rewarding. As patients gradually regained movement in their bodies, their expressions would change, and so would the expressions of their families. Being involved in the process of human recovery gave profound meaning to my work.
Those experiences continue to shape the way I manage hospitals today. When people hear the word “management,” they often think of numbers and organizational structures. But my foundation has always been the front line, the people, and the lives of patients themselves. Without understanding that reality firsthand, I do not believe one can truly understand healthcare.

I Chose the Child in Front of Me Over Profit and Loss

At the age of 34, I became independent and established Chitoku Gakuen, an educational institution for children with developmental disabilities. Today, the term “developmental disability” is widely recognized, but at the time, public understanding was still very limited. That was precisely why there were so many children and parents in need of such a place.
In the end, more than 300 children gathered there.
That alone demonstrated the enormous demand. However, having demand and sustaining a business are two very different things. Many of the children came from single-parent households, and tuition payments were often delayed. Financially, the operation was extremely difficult. In a positive sense, I was pursuing an ideal. Realistically speaking, perhaps I was simply “doing something that was not profitable.”
Yet I could not abandon those children simply because they lacked money.
From a business standpoint, perhaps that was naïve. But to me, it felt like drawing a line as a human being.
Fortunately, there were members of the business community in Fukuoka who sympathized with my approach and offered support. Thanks to that support, we were able to continue operating.
People do not help others based solely on calculation.
There will always be people who recognize and respond to genuine sincerity.
Although Chitoku Gakuen was eventually dissolved, it became an invaluable experience for me. Through it, I learned not only to avoid making decisions based solely on profitability, but also that ideals alone are not enough to sustain reality. In that period of my life, I was taught both idealism and realism in the harshest possible way.

Living With Illness Became the Foundation of My Life

Since childhood, I have had a weak heart, and during my youth I suffered from severe attacks. There were many times when I truly believed, “This may be the end.” After undergoing two major surgeries, I was finally able to live a relatively normal life, but even now I continue to live alongside physical limitations.
For that reason, I have never believed that life unfolds exactly as one wishes. I never know when my body might suddenly fail me. That awareness has always remained somewhere in the back of my mind.
Years later, while training at a gym, a dumbbell fell on my right foot and fractured it. After that injury, I began experiencing symptoms similar to Parkinson’s syndrome. Having witnessed many cases in the medical field where a major injury triggered illness or caused rapid deterioration, I came to understand firsthand that “serious illness often begins with injury.”
Of course, there are inconveniences. Sometimes it takes time just to start walking, and there are many moments when I must rely on the help of others. Even so, I have rarely considered myself unfortunate. There are still things one can do while carrying illness, and in many ways, limitations allow you to see things you otherwise never would.
I place great importance on what I call “acceptance.”
This is not passive resignation. It means not forcing oneself to pursue what cannot be done, while at the same time protecting what must be protected under any circumstance. Above all, I never want someone else to control my life. Whether through illness or physical limitation, my own domain must remain mine to defend. That conviction is what has carried me this far.
In that sense, illness has become the “pace-maker” of my life. If I push too hard, I collapse. Precisely because of that, there are parts of myself I have never lost sight of. Looking back, I feel that the very experience of living with illness has become part of my character and philosophy.

In Healthcare Management, Character Is What Ultimately Matters Most

Since becoming involved in hospital management, there is one thing I have come to feel very strongly: in the end, what matters most in healthcare is a person’s character.
Knowledge and technical skill are essential prerequisites. But beyond that, what patients and their families truly observe is this: “What kind of person is this doctor?” “Can I entrust my life to this individual with peace of mind?” That is all. Excuses such as “We are busy” or “We are short-staffed” mean nothing to patients.
I once witnessed the cold treatment received by a close acquaintance suffering from terminal cancer while hospitalized, and the feeling of helplessness I experienced then has never left me.
That is why, when choosing hospital leaders, I place great importance on their humanity.
Do they possess dignity and integrity? Can they control their emotions and desires?
Ultimately, management is the work of understanding people.

Neither Hospital Revitalization Nor Organization Building Can Be Achieved Through Sweet Idealism

Over the years, I have been involved in the management of multiple hospitals, including Tokuyama Hospital and Inokuchinoma Hospital. From the outside, it may appear glamorous, but in reality, it is an endless series of humble, painstaking work.
Tokuyama Hospital, for example, was burdened with debt, and rebuilding it required tremendous resolve. Even so, I accepted the challenge because I felt, instinctively, “This hospital can change.”

The key to hospital revitalization is not simply cutting costs. It is clarifying “Why does this hospital exist?” and “What are the people who work here striving for?”
To heal illness, support patients through discharge, and help them regain their lives within the community.
Once the organization begins steering toward that direction, the morale of the staff changes, and so too does the evaluation from patients and their families. Rather than prescribing excessive medication or relying on temporary, superficial responses, hospitals must provide proper treatment and support patients all the way through social reintegration. I believe that is what healthcare should truly be.
And above all else, the most important factor is “one key person.”
No matter how impressive the policies may sound or how much capital is invested, hospitals will never change without someone on the front line willing to see things through. Conversely, if there is even one person who makes you believe, “This individual can change the hospital,” or “This person can become the axis around which the organization moves,” then revitalization is absolutely possible.
That is why I begin by identifying that individual. It does not matter whether they are a physician, a nurse, or administrative staff. Titles are irrelevant. What matters is whether they refuse to run away, whether they possess the determination to see things through, whether they can unite people around them, and whether they are worthy of trust. I observe that essence carefully.
And once I decide, “This is the person,” I commit myself completely.
In other words, rebuilding a hospital is not about reconstructing buildings or adjusting numbers. It is about changing people’s awareness, transforming the atmosphere of the workplace, and ultimately changing the way patients are treated.
I am not investing in hospitals.
I am investing in people — and in the future that lies beyond them.

Independence Is Not About Winning — It Is About Not Losing

To me, “independence” does not mean becoming wildly successful as an entrepreneur or achieving extraordinary accomplishments beyond everyone else. It means living one’s life at one’s own pace, without being controlled by others. In other words, I believe “not losing” is more important than “winning.”
In the years ahead, employment opportunities will undoubtedly continue to shrink. For those without savings or powerful backing, the first thing they must do is simple: before speaking of ideals, create a situation in which they can survive.
Do not be overly selective. Do what you are capable of right now. Face reality directly, and set goals within it.
Goals that are too lofty only crush a person. Place your goal somewhere you genuinely believe you can reach, then build toward it step by step. Imagine as concretely as possible who you want to become three years, five years, or seven years from now. Then continue accumulating what you can do today in order to move toward that blueprint. That is how life begins to open up.
In the truest sense, the only person capable of supporting you is yourself.
That is why I have continued encouraging myself all the way to this point.

At My Core Is the Desire to Stand Beside People

When I reflect on everything I have done throughout my life, I feel I have been asking myself one question all along.
“What does it truly mean to stand beside another person?”
Standing beside someone does not simply mean speaking gentle words. Sometimes harsh decisions are necessary, and at times you must accept being disliked. Even so, what matters is whether, at the root of your actions, there is a genuine desire to serve that person or that community. Without that, both healthcare and management become hollow.
I have lived through illness and experienced physical limitations.
I have encountered genuine kindness, but I have also witnessed hypocrisy and deception.
That is why, at the very least, I want to remain sincere toward the patients, the staff, and every individual standing before me who has become part of my life.

Challenges for the Future

I have a great dream. One day, I want to create a medical system with 1,000 beds across western Japan. But scale itself is not the purpose. First 300 beds, then 500 — and eventually 1,000 as a natural extension of that growth.

What does it mean to provide healthcare truly needed by a community?
It means creating a place where patients feel safe.
A place where those who work there can feel genuine pride.
If that process ultimately leads to 1,000 beds, then it has meaning.
To expand high-quality healthcare in a sustainable way — that is our mission.
Through that accumulation of effort, organizations are built, and eventually regional healthcare itself begins to change.
That is what I believe.

April 2026
Interview conducted at Seiseikai Inokuchinoma Hospital
Interview & Editing: DK Sugiyama
Project Manager: Chiho Ando
Text: Eri Shibata (Deputy Editor-in-Chief, “My Philosophy”)
Photography: Yuichi Umehara
Produced by the “My Philosophy®” Editorial Team