Here’s what I took from those conversations: there’s something magical about summer camp. Those days stick in your mind like pine sap in your hair, like the scent of campfire smoke on your clothes. Even decades later, the memories remain vivid.

Which is why I decided that I didn’t want to spend ten months slogging through what everyone else called Real Life only to spend two months living what felt like my real life.

I wanted it all the time.

It’s sometimes still hard to believe I achieved that childhood dream. That this is my full-time, year-round, always and forever job. I am the head camp director at Camp Chickawah, and we’ve just completed another successful summer session.

The big lawn in the middle of the property is abuzz, hundreds of campers milling around, duffels and sleeping bags heaped in messy piles. Counselors try their best to wrangle the kids as they exchange tearful hugs with their cabinmates and friends, promising to see each other next summer. Then we herd them onto buses, double-checking that their gear is safely stowed below, and wave as they take off down the road.

I gather my summer staff—the counselors, lifeguards, kitchen crew, sailing and archery and tennis instructors—and thank them for working so hard. I remind them that camp people never say goodbye; we say “see ya next summer.” So that’s what they do, exchanging phone numbers and hugs before taking off.

And then everything goes silent.

The only signs of the three hundred people who called this place home for the past eight weeks are the trampled ground, scraps of trash, and whispers of memory floating through the air: campfires and songs, pranks and crafts, friendships to last a lifetime. I take a deep breath, thinking how grateful I am to be part of it.

At the same time, I’m exhausted. Each day at camp feels like a week, and each week feels like a month. I haven’t had a full night of sleep since May—I’m always listening for the knock on my cabin door. This summer, I drove two people with broken bones to the emergency room in the middle of the night (one camper, one counselor), calmed a pack of terrified ten-year-olds when a tree fell on their cabin’s porch during a rainstorm, and stayed up all night cleaning vomit after a stomach bug ran through camp.

And most importantly: I kept a calm, reassuring smile on my face the entire time. After all, I set the tone for the summer. The former owners, Nathaniel and Lola Valentine, taught me this.

“Welp, made it through another year,” a gruff voice says, and I turn to see my assistant camp director, Dot.