I don't like children. I don't like the outdoors. I don't generally like being uncomfortable.
I don't like bugs or heights, the cold, dirt, tying knots, the smell of fire or even Arizona. But, somehow I've found myself stuck in the middle of the woods, surrounded by those exact things for an entire summer.
As a camp counselor, I force myself awake at 6 a.m. every day and shower in unheated water, which is only lukewarm on a good day. I swat bugs and critters away as I trudge across camp, soaked in sweat and usually miserable.
Did I mention there's no cell service here?
I could not feel farther away from my comfortable dorm and five-minute walk to class that I had become so accustomed to during the semester.
I am responsible for up to 20 kids at a time, and yet I still feel like a kid myself. I show them how to do stereotypical scouting things, such as churning butter and setting up tents.
It's ridiculous to me—and anyone who knows me—that I teach these things that are so foreign to me.
I'm a cliche child of the 21st century. I sleep in, have a phone addiction and need my iced coffee to muster up a good mood.
I had never considered myself the kind of person who would work at a summer camp. This same thought ran through my head as I filled out that application months ago.
The truth is, I didn't just plop down in the Tonto National Forest out of nowhere. As much as I like to pretend I am here by accident, I knew what I was signing up for—it was the appeal of a challenge that drew me in.
So I volunteered myself in hopes of becoming the Disney Channel archetype that goes to a summer camp and comes back with a new passion for nature.
It was much more romantic in my head than in real life, but I've still managed to glean some knowledge out of the Ponderosa pines.
Gathered around the campfire every week, we sing songs and hold each other tight. Our laughter echoes across the mountain as we share stories of our lives.
I continue to learn so much from my coworkers, with their endless patience and reliability. I could not fathom why a student at Massachusetts Institute of Technology would choose to spend her summer in rural Arizona, until I learned to view my state through her lens of awe and curiosity.
I never appreciated the Big Dipper until I saw it outlined above my head in a stunningly clear sky, a constellation I had never seen before this summer.
I also learn from the children I oversee, with every friendship bracelet we make—and every time they insult me. It's heartwarming to see such simple pleasures make their day, and it has forced me to rethink how much of my own life I've wrapped up in unnecessary complexities.
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One day, while we were sitting outside, a massive white bird came swooping down over our heads. The children and adults alike raced down the hill to watch it in flight.
As we gathered around the edge of the lake, the bird dove into the water and reemerged with a fish in its grasp. We all cheered and laughed. It was such a simple thing, but how often do you take the time out of your day to watch a bird hunt?
As we started walking back, I lingered for a moment longer with my co-counselor. I guess the grin on my face gave away my secret: I had been thoroughly amazed by a bird.
She said she was proud to see I had discovered that there are things to be happy about, even in the middle of nowhere.
Now, every time a kid gets excited about a "cool bird," I don't roll my eyes. I take the time to look, because if I can't find something cool about it, that means I'm not looking closely enough.
Arguably, I have learned just as much here as I have sitting in a classroom.
It's a different language, one that takes patience to unravel. Simply getting outside was not enough for me to reach nirvana, but once I embraced the fact that I wasn't in Phoenix anymore, I found things to love around me.
Every morning when I unzip my sleeping bag, I meet a new side of myself that didn't exist before.
I used to scream when I saw a bug in Gordon Commons. But today, I held a daddy longleg cupped in my hands, got a bullseye on the archery range and overcame my fear of the dark by hiking across camp to pee at 10 p.m.
And every night when I cozy up in my sleeping bag, I realize that the cold and discomfort no longer bother me. The bruises and bug bites across my body display a story—an uncomfortable one, but one that reminds me that I am more than I thought I was.
Edited by Dhemi Bell, Senna James and Ellis Preston.
Reach the reporter at ajanusee@asu.edu and follow @lexijanusee on X.
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Lexi Janusee is in her second semester with the State Press. She is a freshman studying Journalism and Mass Communications with a minor in Theatre. Lexi also works for Blaze Radio, and is an on-air host for Open Mic.
