I definitely wouldn’t call myself a shy person. I talk a lot, I speak my mind and I can be comfortable in most social settings; except for this one. It’s a hot, August evening on the grounds of Experience Camps. It’s my second day but I still can’t seem to break out of my shell. It’s a rare feeling, and an uncomfortable one at that. I sat down in a circle surrounding a puzzle; the girls’ side of the camp was participating in brain games. I watch the blindfolded girl attempt the puzzle as everyone’s voices overlap in their best efforts to direct her.

A tall girl, with a single messy braid and backward baseball cap, slumps down next to me. I’ve seen her before; people call her Hockey. She’s loud and vivacious. It’s impossible not to know who she is. Although I know her, she certainly doesn’t know me. I glance over at her. Even her body language is confident, and her freckled face stares back at me. She doesn’t have a name necklace, only a simple cross instead, so I don’t know her actual name or how many years she’s been here. I was too scared to talk to her, let alone ask a simple question. I haven’t spoken to anyone outside my cabin.

I feel compelled to speak, but I don’t even know what I’d say. It was funny because she reminded me of, well, me. It was like looking into fragments of a mirror. 

Once I accidentally make eye contact with her, she immediately starts talking to me, further complaining about the activity in front of us. 

“This is so stupid!” She exclaims, slightly aggravated, but still follows with a smile. It makes me smile, too. It was a comforting feeling in an unfamiliar place. 

Being able to observe and be the quiet one for a change let me tap into a part of myself that’s usually dormant. I found solace in being able to observe the high energy of her and the others around me. I felt almost alone— even though I was surrounded by many girls— but not lonely. I wasn’t blabbering and my mind wasn’t going a million miles an hour. I felt present. 

At the end of the day, I sat by myself outside of our cabin and looked around me. The campgrounds were beautiful. I had never stopped to look at the acres and acres of field, the arch of the trees or the almost cloudless sky.  I almost felt giddy from the peace of being alone and disconnected from others. I realized the power stepping back had on my peace of mind. 

This experience didn’t make me a quieter person or erase my natural vivacity, but it added a new dimension to who I am. It taught me that some of the most meaningful connections—whether with a place, a person or even myself—happen in the quiet moments, when I simply listen and take it all in.