Every summer, I spend two weeks serving at a church camp.
There's something about those two weeks that feels unlike the rest of the year. The days are long. The schedule is full. Everyone is tired by the end of it. Yet somewhere between shared meals, serving side by side, and conversations that continue long after the campers have gone to bed, strangers become friends.
Every year, I leave feeling like I've been given something I didn't know I needed.
This summer, I arrived expecting to direct the art program, teach leatherworking, and help wherever I was needed. Somewhere along the way, I volunteered to host an after-hours karaoke night for the staff.
At first, it seemed like a simple way to end the day together.
By the end of camp, I realized it had become one of the moments I'd remember most.
When I was younger, I loved to sing.
I sang in choir throughout high school, and for years I imagined music might become a bigger part of my life.
Life, of course, had other plans.
I never stopped singing. I still sing while I'm cooking dinner, driving in the car, or cleaning the kitchen with my daughters.
But somewhere along the way, I stopped singing in front of other people.
It wasn't a decision so much as a slow retreat.
One day I realized that the only people who ever heard me sing anymore were my husband and my daughters.
It always felt strange to me that singing became the one creative part of my life where comparison seemed to have the loudest voice.
Over the years, I learned to trust my eye behind a camera. I found joy in developing recipes, arranging flowers, writing, and creating a home that feels warm and welcoming. More recently, I decided to learn how to roller skate—a hobby I never imagined taking up in my forties.
One afternoon at camp, I grabbed a broom and swept the outdoor pavilion before lacing up my skates. For a little while, it was just the sound of my wheels rolling across the concrete and the warm summer air. I wasn't practicing for anything. I wasn't trying to impress anyone. I was simply enjoying something that had once felt intimidating.
Lately, I've discovered there's a particular kind of joy that comes from trying something you aren't good at yet.
Those parts of me continued to grow.
Singing was the exception.
As camp went on, something unexpected began happening.
Not because of one big moment.
Because of dozens of small ones.
Meals shared together.
Late-night conversations.
People cheering one another on.
One afternoon at lunch, a conversation was already underway about bottled water. Two people were comparing their favorite brands, and I chimed in that Evian had always been my favorite because of its soft mouthfeel and taste.
The conversation moved on.
The next day, one of the staff members walked up and handed me a pack of Evian.
Years ago, when I first met him, I remember thinking he probably didn't like me very much.
The water wasn't the point.
The point was that he had listened.
He remembered.
And every evening after dinner, there was an ice-cold bottle of Evian waiting for me in the refrigerator.
It became a small reminder that kindness often looks wonderfully ordinary.
I've thought about that moment several times since because, in many ways, it captured the spirit of those two weeks.
People noticed one another.
They encouraged one another.
They remembered the little things.
By the final weekend of camp, karaoke night finally arrived.
The room was packed.
There was something wonderfully eclectic about the music that evening. One moment, two friends performed The Phantom of the Opera. A little later, someone had the room belting out Journey's Separate Ways. We heard Roberta Flack's Killing Me Softly, Vanilla Ice's Ice Ice Baby, and REO Speedwagon's I Can't Fight This Feeling. My youngest daughter stole the show with Laufey's From the Start before bringing the house down with Boney M.'s Rasputin, leaving the entire room clapping and singing along.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, I sang Feist's I Feel It All, She & Him's I Thought I Saw Your Face Today, and closed the evening with Bruce Springsteen's Dancing in the Dark.
The funny thing is...
I honestly couldn't tell you whether I sang especially well that night.
Because somewhere between introducing singers, making sure everyone had a turn, cheering for my daughter, and watching friends encourage one another, my attention shifted.
The greater takeaway wasn't how I performed.
It was watching what the night had become.
As I was leaving, someone smiled and said,
"It was nice seeing you come out of your shell."
I've been thinking about those words ever since.
I don't think camp changed who I am.
I'm still an introvert.
I'll always need quiet mornings, a good cup of coffee, and a little solitude after two weeks of living in community.
But I do think camp reminded me of something I had forgotten.
There is something deeply life-giving about finding a community where you don't have to earn your place before you participate.
A place where people celebrate your willingness to contribute.
A place where kindness looks like applause, hugs, shared laughter...
...and sometimes, a pack of Evian because someone remembered an offhand comment over lunch.
For years, I thought finding my voice meant becoming more confident—becoming someone who no longer felt nervous standing in front of other people.
Now I'm beginning to wonder if confidence was never the point.
Maybe finding our voice isn't about becoming louder.
Maybe it's about finding people who make us feel safe enough to use it.
When I was twenty, I thought becoming had a timeline. I imagined there would come a day when I would finally know exactly who I was.
Now I think becoming is one of life's greatest privileges.
Perhaps finding my voice was never really about singing.
Perhaps it was about discovering that the right community has a way of drawing out parts of us we thought we'd left behind.
If that's true, then maybe finding our voice isn't something we do once.
Maybe, like becoming, it's something we keep doing for the rest of our lives.
Photo credit: J. Castillo, H. Wolford
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