It is a common misconception that memories are permanent and immovable—that the way we recall things is an exact replica of events. In reality, research shows that memories are not fixed like a photograph or a video feed; they are prone to distortion and, every time we recall a memory, we subconsciously change it slightly. This malleability can work to our benefit when it comes to reprocessing difficult childhood memories.

One of my most difficult memories happened, unexpectedly, at summer camp. 

In July 2004, I was standing in the camp office, clutching the landline telephone like my life depended upon it. I had finally gotten ahold of my parents, but was sobbing so hard I could barely speak. The sleep-away camp had a rule: no phone calls home during the first week. The idea was that homesickness, like a scraped knee, was best endured rather than indulged. But, after days of incessant crying, the staff made an exception for me. I was 10 years old and less than a week into my first overnight camp experience. I was miserable, and I wanted out.

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.

I daydreamed about returning home with new friends, funny stories, and maybe even my first boyfriend. But instead of finding independence and adventure, I found the opposite: sudden timidity, anxiety, and depression. Two weeks no longer felt like a transformative vacation, but a distressing abandonment. Across multiple hard-won phone calls, I begged my mom and dad to come get me. My counselors repeatedly assured my parents that I would get over my homesickness and fall in love with camp. I certainly hoped I would. But, a week in, I couldn’t last any longer. On the other end of the landline, my family reluctantly agreed to bring me home early.

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.

Parents might see my experience as evidence that children shouldn’t be pushed into overnight camps or sleepovers before they’re ready. As concerns about safety, mental health, and juvenile anxiety have grown, sleepovers have become increasingly controversial. But, two decades later, I found myself wondering something different: what if the lesson of my camp experience wasn’t that I should have stayed home?

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. 

Other therapeutic approaches suggest much the same thing: in eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR) therapy, revisiting distressing events under guided conditions can help reduce their emotional hold. The research points to a paradox of confronting painful memories: doing so can be uncomfortable, but it may also be one of the ways they lose their power.

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. 

It had been 15 years since I’d been to camp and, in the meantime, I’d traveled the world and slept many nights outside of my familial home. I spent four years away at college, two months in Europe during a semester abroad, and a summer in Ghana working as a photography teacher. 

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.

I drove from Philadelphia to Camp Nah-Jee-Wah in Milford, Pa. Over two weeks, I embedded myself within one bunk of 10- and 11-year-old girls: the same age I was when I first went to camp. 

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).

And, to my surprise, I actually loved it. Without intending to, I was doing exactly what Schiller’s research describes: revisiting an old fear memory and pairing it with new experiences. In the process, memories of camp that once represented panic, failure, and homesickness now also held laughter, community, and joy.

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.