It is hard to express the chokehold of summer camp: seven weeks, pure joy. Being away from home for a long time seems daunting to anyone else. To me, sprinting down the bunk line on the third week of June every year is what makes me happiest. Nothing matters at summer camp. Simply put, it is the only place where being yourself is enough to fit in. The biggest concerns are what bedtime snacks will be, and life is so carefree. For eight years, I went to summer camp as a camper. June 25, 2022, looked a whole lot different. I drove to camp this year, which only means one thing: I am no longer a camper. As I pulled in, the automatic gates that read “CAMP IHC” opened before me. My lips grew apart as my grin exploded as if I wasn't smiling before. The first day of camp is always the greatest. The start of a new summer means a new bunk, a new lifestyle, especially now that my lifestyle will revolve around kids. It’s funny; growing up, I never realized how hard my counselors had it. A bunch of loud, obnoxious, pre-pubescent teenagers running carefree without their parents. What could be worse? If I had known how annoying my fourteen-year-old self was, I probably would have shut up more often because I definitely needed to.

I consider myself a camp expert. If the owners had to give up the camp tomorrow, I would be there to take it over. My relationship with them is strong, which is why I walk through the camp like I own the place. This past summer was my tenth and most memorable because of the recognition I received from the people around me. In my past as a camper, I was never the favorite.