On August 20th, 2024, I loaded a charter bus with kids my age to as young as six or seven heading to Decatur, Michigan for Experience Camps, a special program for children who have lost a parent or sibling. The girl in front of me looked no older than six. She clung to her grey stuffed animal, hiding her face and seeking comfort in the creature I couldn’t quite make out. I text my Dad.

“There’s like a six year old girl in front of me who looks really nervous…”

“Talk to her!” He responds; a typical fatherly response. I would if I wasn’t as nervous as her. 

By the time we got there and I was settled into my cabin, I was still just as anxious. As I look around the cabin, I’m surrounded by eight other girls my age, and three counselors. Most of them seem to already know each other.

I step back and see a girl who also seems to be separated from the rest of the group. I give her a small, unintentionally awkward smile. Her perfect white teeth smile back at me, somehow looking just as timid. Her blonde hair and blue eyes shine just like her teeth. I approach the slender girl and make small talk as we settle in. Soon enough, we merged with the rest of the group. Most of the others had loud personalities, they were talkative and funny. I admired their exuberance.

A counselor taps me on the shoulder; I notice her mellow demeanor and warm smile before anything about her appearance. The calmness washes over me in a contagious manner. She hands me a string necklace with my name in wood beads,and next to it is a plastic, dark blue circle bead. “Hi Baity, my name’s Jamie,” she says, her voice just as gentle. “We all wear name necklaces and each bead next to your name shows how many years you’ve been at camp for,” she explains. I thank her and turn to the girl I had first talked to; hers says “Faye” and only has one bead, as well.

My need for routine thrived in camp. I crouch down next to my bunkmate Aryan to see the schedule. It is filled with regular camp activities; free swim, bonfires, etc… One of our activities is clinical. “What’s this?” I ask as I turn my head to face her. 

“It’s where we all sit down and talk about our person and stuff. Bobbie comes in, too. She runs it. She’s the grief specialist for our cabin,” Aryan explains. I nod and try to hide the fact that this did not help my nerves.

Sooner than I’d like, I’m sitting underneath one of my blankets on the floor, in a circle with everyone in my cabin, plus an unfamiliar face which I can only assume is the previously mentioned Bobbie. She had dumped numerous fidgets in the middle of the circle. I clutch my stuffed animal and stare blankly at a picture of my mother and grandmother in front of me. I feel detached. I try to take my eyes off of it but I feel physically incapable. I perk up at the sound of a new voice.

“Okay, now that we’re all settled in, my name’s Bobbie, I’m the grief specialist for your cabin.” Like Jamie, she has a calm demeanor and glow to her. (I guess that would be helpful for a therapist.) She explains that our first activity is a very important one, we will all go around and share information about our person. We can choose to pass, but if we do so, Bobbie will ask a few questions instead. 

Despite my timidness, I was almost excited to talk about my mom. I never really get the chance and I was ready to share. I was the third to go. “Hi, my name is Baity. My mom died about a year ago from cancer-” The words shake, I stop. I can’t get the words out, I choked. “Can I skip?” I manage to say through tears. Bobbie nods and thanks me for sharing. I thought I was ready to share… Why am I panicking? What’s wrong with me?

My new friend Faye has the same struggle as me, and can only mutter her fathers name and how he died. Although I’ve only known her for a day, I felt compelled to comfort her in one of the only ways I knew how. I grab her hand and she squeezes back harder than anticipated. I can’t bring myself to make eye contact with her, I can only sit and listen to her stifled sobs. I rubbed the back of her hand with my thumb, focusing on the sensation and grounding myself with deeper breaths. 

When I finally look around the cabin, I realize my experience is no longer abnormal. Although our stories differ in small ways, our feelings are the same. Everyone in these campgrounds understands and has experienced what I have. They understand that I’m still grieving after a year and that I’m not “over it.” They understand that some days, I’m mad at her, and they understand the hurtful things people say to you when they mean to be helpful. I listen to each and every girl’s story and feel connected to each and every one of them. I had finally gotten the understanding I needed this past year.