Most people remember camp fondly as a place of pristine beauty, of counselors who could do no wrong, of sunny afternoons at archery and nights wide open to the stars. They remember infinite possibilities, burnt s’mores, the immensely satisfying feeling of making it up the mountain.

I relish my memories of being a camper. But even more, I relish my memories of my first summer here as a counselor at Tomahawk Ranch. 

The camp itself is beautiful, a fact that somehow I never fully appreciated ten years ago. 480 acres of pine trees, sticky sweet with butterscotch-scented sap. Wide meadows of sage and wildflowers, thin trails winding to the dining hall, to the glassy mirrored surface of the pond. The poorly marked trail to Totem Rock, where the world lies beneath you like a lush green blanket. Night skies perfectly cloudless, freckled with stars so bright that if you didn’t sleep under them your heart would break. The views are breathtaking, the air clean and crisp. Every morning I wake up astounded and grateful for the beauty that surrounds me.

But the true beauty, what I will remember for the rest of my life, is the beauty I see in the girls. How they come to camp shy and insecure, or bossy and cruel, or simply uncomfortable in their own skins, and how they discover over the course of five short days that they are beautiful, talented, kind=hearted young women. They suddenly understand that there are no limits to what they can do, who they can be. And that even if they go home to where they live to please their parents, even if they go to a school where they will be bullied mercilessly by their peers, even if they are so lonely they cannot take another step— they just need to remember the mountains that welcomed them in July, the counselors who gave their hearts and souls to their campers, they know they can always come here; it will always be home. I know because I was that camper, and ten years later here I am, changing lives; hopefully for the better.

Two weeks ago, my unit did Warm Fuzzies. Warm Fuzzies are when each girl writes a note to every other girl telling her what she loves about that girl, so that months later they can look back at it and see, in black and white, how incredibly amazing they are. One of my campers wrote to me a very simple message: “I look up to you.”

That is my favorite camp memory. That is what I love about this place. That I can help campers achieve their dreams, and they, unknowingly, allow me to accomplish mine. 

Yersterday afternoon, as a bullyproofing Power-Up activity, my girls did “Warm Fuzzies.” Warm Fuzzies are sheets of paper on which each girl writes her name, and every girl then writes something nice on everyone’s sheet. Things like “you’re a good listener” or “you’re really funny.”

Counselors also did Warm Fuzzies, because, hey, someone needs to give a long-winded explanation of the girl’s good side. And the girls love to see our handwriting and see how much we love them.

On my sheet, one of my girls wrote: “I look up to you.”

That’s all I need. I love my job.

At camp, I got over my paralyzing fear of chickens.

People take stars for granted.

They offer the deep blue heavens a passing glance, a remark on the constellations, sketched across the magnificent canvas by the light hand of a celestial painter.

They don’t stare at that seemingly insignificant pinprick of light until it is burned into their very being. They don’t see the stars and understand the magnitude of what they mean.

A star is a hot ball of gas, twinkling and shining from a distance. It was born from the empty abyss of space trillions of years ago and died in a massive explosion millions of years ago, and finally its death throes reach us in a weak sputter of life.

In this remarkable universe— constantly changing, always moving, with countless stars living and glowing and dying—who is not to say that somewhere, across the universe, there is not someone pondering the same questions as me?