Some of my favorite childhood memories begin in the dark hours before sunrise.
It was the morning we would leave for summer camp. I remember pulling into the familiar parking lot where everyone met for the long carpool to the overnight camp hours away. The air was cool, the sky barely turning pink, and parents stood around with travel mugs of coffee while kids lugged oversized duffel bags and sleeping bags.
Even before we left, the butterflies had already started.
There was something about that moment—the mix of excitement and nervous energy—that felt magical. We’d pile into vans with kids we knew and kids we barely knew yet, knowing that by the end of the week those strangers might be our closest friends.
The drive always felt long, but the anticipation made it fly by. We talked about what we hoped to do first, who might be in our cabins, and—most importantly—whether there would be s’mores around the bonfire that first night.
There were always s’mores.
Camp had a rhythm all its own. Days filled with swimming, hiking, games and the kind of freedom that feels endless when you’re a kid. Nights spent sitting around a crackling fire, sticky fingers from melted chocolate and marshmallows while counselors told stories that felt a little bit spooky and a little bit magical.
But camp wasn’t just about the fun.
It was the first place I learned how to be independent. You had to keep track of your things, make your bed, find your way to activities and figure things out without a parent hovering nearby.
Sometimes that independence felt thrilling. Sometimes it felt hard.
There were nights when the homesickness crept in and I found myself waiting in line at the camp phone to call my mom. I didn’t always know what I needed to say—I just needed to hear her voice for a moment. Somehow that was always enough to send me back to my cabin feeling a little braver.
Camp also taught me how much we rely on each other. Friends shared sunscreen, bug spray and flashlights. If someone forgot something, someone else always had extra. It was teamwork in the most natural way.
Looking back now, I realize something else about those summers in the 90s.
Our parents simply knew less.
There were fewer emails, fewer updates, fewer photos posted in real time. Once we drove away, that was it. We were off on our adventure. There were no screens pulling us back into the outside world, no constant check-ins.
And because of that, we were fully there.
Those summers felt bigger somehow—longer days, deeper friendships, more freedom to explore and get a little messy along the way.
Now, as a parent myself, I sometimes wonder if camp still feels the same. The world is different. Parenting is different. We know more, worry more and stay more connected than ever before.
But this summer, I want to give my kids a taste of that same magic.
A little independence. A little adventure. A week where the biggest decision is whether to toast their marshmallow golden brown or let it catch on fire.
And maybe, just maybe, they’ll come home with the same kind of stories that still make me smile decades later.
