JAN 2025 - Tent

I was 17, a returning counselor to the camp I’d worked at the year before. Last year I was kind, caring, popular with campers, adept at taking on duties for which I’d had no training. This year I was miserable with boyfriend troubles, often critical, sometimes mean. I did not like myself yet I seemed unable to change my behavior. I chastised campers for not finishing breakfast, moving too slowly to get to the next activity . . . After hearing so many bad stories about my interaction with campers, the camp director chose not to fire me; I was still good at leading drama and puppetry activities. Instead, she took me out of the bunk and told me to live by myself in a small tent on the periphery of the camp.

Living alone was a relief. I could be as miserable as I felt with no worries about anyone else’s feelings. I was a failure, but at least I had a job.

One morning, after I’d helped a group of campers begin work on a puppet play, I returned to my tent. Someone was inside. Astonished and angry, “I yelled, “Who gave you permission to be in my tent?”

The girl started to cry. “I’m sorry. I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” Her misery dissolved mine, at least for the moment. I asked her to tell me what was wrong. She couldn’t stop crying. I put my arm around her, led her to my bed and settled her against me. “Everyone hates me. Everyone is mean to me. Just like you. But it’s just as bad at home. The boys bully me into showing them my homework and the girls make fun of my hair and clothes.”

Hearing her call me mean, which was fair enough, made me feel worse. I had no idea how to help her. I had no idea how to help myself. I listened. I gave her a slightly used tissue to blow her nose and dry her eyes. When she stopped crying and talking, we sat in silence. Knowing I had to do something, I said, “I’m sorry I was mean. I’ll try to be more kind.” 

She wiped her face and said, “Maybe you can help me learn to swim. The teacher doesn’t like me. She says I’m a baby.”

“Sure,” I said, relieved to have a way to help her. “I have a lifesaving certificate. I’ll talk to the director and ask for permission to assist at the waterfront.”.

She hugged me. Thanked me. Left looking less upset than when I’d first seen her.

Somehow, despite my initial shock, the isolated tent became a place for unhappy campers to tell me their troubles. I learned not to react negatively when I came back to the tent and found a girl or two crying, needing to talk, always without my permission. Mostly I listened. Sometimes I could find a solution. In the process, something inside me shifted. I was still miserable about my boyfriend, but the campers sharing their troubles softened my meanness. If I heard myself being critical or unkind, I apologized. It was as if the tent made it possible for me to be my best self, and for campers to talk with no fear of judgement.

The director noticed the change in me and offered to let me return to the bunk. Maybe I was depending too much on the tent, but I told her I liked living in it and hoped I could stay.

By the end of the summer, I was less often mean or critical as I worked with campers doing various activities. Best of all, I had gotten pretty good at focusing on campers who came to see me, to listen and help them as best I could. 

What does it take to change your personal boundary?

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January 2025 monthly Stories