Thank You for Sharing
I shared my most vulnerable story with 40 strangers and it changed my life.
Ponderosa pine needles crept under my bare feet. With each new step I discovered ground unknown to my eyes. A beaten path here and an unfamiliar smell there. The sun peeked over the mountain pass and a glimmer of warmth touched my skin. The sounds of laughter and joy came from those whom I now consider family. The calm roar of water hitting rock grew as we followed a winding path. Then we reached the source of the steady stream of noise, a river that has edges that disappear the longer my eyes traced its beginnings. Those around me began to dip their toes in the water and immediately withdrew from the cold. A wind picked up and I hesitantly stepped onto a small rock platform looking over the river and took a deep breath. I looked at the beauty around me once more, closed my eyes, and jumped in. In all but a few seconds my chest constricted and my heart began to flutter. I could only think of the present. When I got out of the water I felt one thing, utter exhilaration.
In the early months of 2019 I was invited to attend a film camp in Leavenworth, Washington, a small Bavarian mountain town two hours outside of Seattle. Little did I know, the week-long retreat would end up changing the relationships with those around me and even more astonishingly the relationship I have with myself. When I tell people, “Yeah, I went to this film camp and it changed my life.” I am more often than not greeted with jesting laughter. It isn’t until I pull my phone from my back pocket and show them a seemingly ordinary picture of a campfire with yellow amber sparks flying in the air and a deep ocean blue sky painted behind it, that their laughs turn to curiosity. About a month before camp began, I received a letter from the camp director, Rick Stevenson, an award-winning filmmaker and all-around wisdom beholder. It wasn’t until I got to the bottom paragraph of the letter that my attention sprung out of hibernation. He said I’d be expected to prepare and share a ten-minute story answering a question around the campfire that week.
What is the most difficult thing you’ve had to face thus far in your life?
I sat up in my chair and my mind began to race. For some the answer may come easily while for others it may be hidden deeper under the surface. Or perhaps there isn’t just one simple answer but many that form into a whole. I’ve always kept low expectations for events in my life. I try not to allow myself to get over eager or dance in daydreams that may not come true. But I knew this camp held high expectations of me. Forty strangers from a myriad of backgrounds were to come together and share their most personal stories with one another.
On the day I left for Washington, I peered out my airplane window and as the ground beneath me grew small, I braced myself for what was ahead. Blankets of clouds encircled the plane’s wings. Turbulence made us sway from side to side. I rehearsed my story over and over again in my mind. I needed control. Rehearsing gave me that illusion of confidence that would allow me to speak.
When I arrived it felt as though time stood still. Days stretched into nights and seemed to never end. I felt like a kid again. New faces and scenery ignited my sense of wonder. Each of us knew we were exactly where we were supposed to be. Half of us made films and the other made music. After all, that’s why we came to begin with. When the summer sun finally set for the day we sat around a campfire and shared stories. These stories came alive under the stars as they slept during the harshness of day, though their existence was undoubtedly present during both.
Fire embers danced in the air. Their warmth shielded us from the coarse wind whipping through the mountains. Sometimes I would sit on my log and look up for a moment at the stars while someone was telling their story. My attention never wavered from their words, but while I listened, I couldn’t help but admire the beauty above.
The experiences I had sitting around the fire each night and the story I shared and the stories I heard are only a few of the many life-giving moments I had that week. What I say next may be dissatisfying, but I will not be sharing my story here. True vulnerability isn’t experienced behind a white screen with a blinking cursor staring back at you. It’s messier than that but it’s also more rewarding. I don’t remember word for word what I said the night I shared my story but I know I was honest. To be privileged enough to hear the stories of those sitting around me meant it was necessary to honor them by being equally as vulnerable. Validity wasn’t measured upon how much you had suffered or endured but rather your honesty.
Every night after the campfire we would meet outside the kitchen and eat freshly baked chocolate chip cookies with milk. I looked forward to it every day. The night after I told my story I walked behind my cabin mates, entered the kitchen serving area, and was greeted with open arms. A phrase was repeated over and over that week. It’s such a simple phrase and yet so meaningful. Thank you for sharing your story.
These strangers that I had only met a few days prior opened their arms and thanked me. We weren’t half way through the week and yet we were no longer strangers. The campers ranged from 13 to 19 years old and came from all around the world. They told stories of incredible loss and love for the people in their lives. They told brave stories of surviving depression, sexual assault, and abandonment. They told stories of courage and resilience and through them, empathy grew in all of us.
In the days that followed we did what we love: we made films and wrote music. One morning I caught Rick as he walked down to the river.
“I don’t think I’ll have many chances in my life to share what I did around the campfire.” I said.
“I hope that isn’t true,” he replied, almost taken aback. “I hope you get to share it many times.”
I didn’t know it at the time but the acknowledgement that one sentence gave me meant that my story was worthy enough to be heard outside of the crackling fire we sat around each night. Some people can go their entire lives and not share the things that bring them pain. I didn’t believe the pain in me deserved to be known. But what if the very things you hide are what make you more equipped for greatness. And through sharing it — letting it be known — the door to a recklessly abundant life can be opened.
One afternoon near the end of the week we had the choice to play kickball or work on our films. The summer sun was beating down. I chose the latter, and went to edit my film. I walked back to my cabin and suddenly stopped as I was face to face with a fully-grown deer. It was no more than three feet away from me and I watched it calmly lay down on some grass under the shade. I quickly ran to grab my camera and when I popped my head back out, the deer was still there in the same spot from before. I thought about how unusual this encounter would be back at my home in Virginia, where the deer are wary of humans and fearful of being hunted; this deer was the exact opposite. Though threats existed outside the campgrounds, there was peace and safety on the inside. I’d like to think of my week at Prodigy Camp the same way. Each of us came with our own stories from the outside world — full of pain and heartbreak — but on the other side we found peace and understanding in each other.
I’ve never felt more unified with a group of people in my life. When I left Leavenworth, I didn’t want to wash my clothes because then they wouldn’t have smelled like campfire anymore. On that final morning my cabin mate and friend Ella said through tears,
“It hurts to say goodbye because we dared to love.”
And we did just that: we dared to love. On the airplane heading home, I couldn’t help but think of that first morning that I jumped in the ice-cold river. With the wind hitting my face and hearing the joyous laughter from those around me. Feeling the rock platform beneath my feet, wringing my hands trying to prepare for the jump, closing my eyes and taking a deep inhale not knowing how uncomfortable the cold might be. But it’s only when I made the jump and I took that first breath after being fully submerged that I could get to the other side. I believe choosing to be brave and sharing your story can feel the same, like utter exhilaration.
