The first night I cried
The summer of 2005 marked my first year as a Cabin Leader at camp. I had already spent three summers working in various supporting roles but had never been with campers full-time. In fact, I had sworn the previous summer that I’d never work in a cabin—it just seemed like too much work to be with the kids 24/7. So, when our Camp Director called me during the offseason and said, “Brad, I want you to be a Cabin Leader this summer,” my heart nearly stopped. I remember that call vividly, thinking I’d rather take on any other role. Yet, somehow, I found myself in a cabin when summer arrived.
Going into that season, I felt confident. After all, I had three summers under my belt and thought I was more than capable of handling campers and anything they threw at me. But life has a funny way of humbling you and exposing just how unprepared you really are.
When that first group of campers arrived, I was still riding high on confidence. They shuffled off the bus and sat in front of the camp office as the staff called out names and assigned them to their cabins. I met my first group of boys, and day one unfolded without any major hiccups. That confidence stuck with me—until bedtime.
You can have all the preparation and training in the world, but nothing truly prepares you for your first encounter with an obstinate camper who wants nothing to do with you or your instructions.
That evening, I tried to wind the boys down and get them ready for bed. When it came time to turn off the lights and begin quiet time, they had entirely different plans. No matter how many times I came into the room, summoning my deepest “boss voice,” they kept laughing, talking, and doing their own thing. Frustration mounted, and in a moment of desperation, I yelled—really yelled.
It’s the only time in my 20 years of working with kids that I can remember genuinely losing my temper like that. But instead of fear or compliance, my outburst was met with laughter. That laughter broke me. Not long after, I found myself curled up on the deck outside my cabin, crying. Eight little boys had completely humbled me.
Over the years, I’ve reflected on that moment countless times. It’s become a story I share with young and new leaders during training sessions to illustrate two important lessons:
Everyone starts somewhere.
Authority and respect are earned, not deserved.
Looking back, I see how my overconfidence and arrogance sabotaged that first night. Had I been intentional about building relationships from the moment I met them, bedtime might have gone differently. Instead, I spent the rest of the week repairing a fractured relationship caused by my approach.
That night was a wake-up call, revealing how much I still had to learn and grow. I hadn’t earned those boys’ respect, nor had I given them the respect they deserved when I raised my voice.
As adults—though I was just 16 at the time—we often tell ourselves, I’m the mature one here; they’re just kids. I know best and deserve their respect. But the truth is, children, like anyone else, want to be treated as human beings. Many of the kids I’ve worked with, especially in the community I serve, simply want to feel loved, accepted, and seen.
It’s remarkable how quickly you can earn the respect of children and teenagers when you show them true and genuine respect.
