One of my most difficult memories happened, unexpectedly, at summer camp.
My parents had expected me to love camp, and I thought I would too. I was initially filled with hope as I packed my duffel bag with a denim comforter, a skateboard, and personalized stationery to write home. I was young, yes, but camping ran in my family. My sister was seven when she first went to overnight camp; my cousin was eight. My mom worked as a sleep-away camp counselor in college, and my grandmom briefly worked in camp administration. It was finally my turn to spend two weeks at a camp in Pennsylvania’s Pocono Mountains.
From the moment I left camp, I felt simultaneous relief and shame. I was delighted to be back in the comfort of my home, but I also questioned why I couldn’t stick it out for just a few more days. I was determined to go to camp again the next year, convinced I could conquer my fear. When the second attempt failed even worse than the first, I developed a severe separation anxiety and fell into a deep depression at 11 years old. With the help of time, an involved school counselor, and supportive parents, I was able to recover and return to my old self. Still, I avoided talking about camp out of embarrassment and shame.
Neuroscientist Danielle Schiller was inspired to study trauma after witnessing its effects on her father. In 2009, she co-published a paper in Nature that shed light on the neurological process of “reconsolidation.” Through a series of studies, Schiller and her colleagues found evidence that old fear memories can be updated when they are recalled and paired with new information.
In 2021, I faced my camp memories when I began a years-long project about the importance of Jewish summer camps. I approached this story out of a desire to explore how Jewish camps are fundamentally keeping the religion alive. Yet, despite my interest in the topic, I was also afraid to go back to a place that had caused me so much childhood pain.
Even so, my camp memories plagued me. What if I again became homesick, anxious, or depressed? If I thought leaving camp at 11 years old was embarrassing, I couldn’t imagine how crushing it would be to have a repeat experience at 26. To report this story, I would again be spending two weeks at summer camp. I had a panic attack the night before I left, but I still went, hoping for the best and preparing for the worst.
As I documented the campers going about their days, I often partook in their camp activities as well. Joining in allowed me to make photos from closer angles, build relationships with the girls, and pass the time. I swam in the lake, made bracelets at the arts and crafts station, and ate s’mores at the bonfire. I experienced the same mosquito bites and sunburns. I made camp friends (even if they were 15 years younger than me).
I still don’t know whether overnight camp was right for me at 10 years old. Maybe I really wasn’t ready. But I no longer see my camp experience as a story about failure. For years, I let two difficult summers define what camp meant to me. Returning as an adult reminded me that memories are not monuments; they are living things that can be revisited, reconsidered, and sometimes rewritten.
The camp of my childhood memory still exists, but it no longer stands alone. Now it shares space with another camp: one filled with lake swims, friendship bracelets, campfires, and laughter. Camp had not changed. But my memories did, and so had I.
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