I don’t remember the exact date, but I remember the exact moment.  It was late, probably too late, and my roommates and I had just finished another long, full day of International Kallah activities at Perlman. We made the familiar hike up the hill to Dorm 9, tired but wired in the way only camp can make you feel. Eventually, everyone went to bed. I didn’t…sorry, Julia. 

Instead, I sat alone on the porch of Dorm 9 at 1 a.m., staring out into the dark, letting my thoughts run wild. Somewhere between exhaustion and clarity, a light bulb went off, and I pulled out my notes app.  I realized I was writing my college essay, without a laptop, without an outline, just in my notes app journaling.  

I came to Perlman after spending years at Camp Laurelwood, the camp I’d gone to since 2018. At Laurelwood, I had grown into a counselor: someone who knew the routines, the culture, and myself. At Perlman, I was suddenly a camper again. That shift alone was strange. 

Each teen at Perlman is extremely limited in how much they can bring. For someone like me, a chronic overpacker who loves multiple outfits a day, this felt almost impossible. I packed one suitcase of clothes and a duffel bag with bedding and necessities. One suitcase might sound like a lot, but for three weeks at a brand-new camp? It felt like nothing.

Almost immediately, my bunkmates and I fell into the same routine. We were constantly running into each other’s rooms, asking the same question: “Do you have a ___ I can borrow?”  A sweatshirt. Shorts. A tank top. Something blue. Something warm. Something clean. At first, I didn’t think much of it. But sitting on that porch, watching the dorm lights flicker and listening to the quiet hum of camp at night, I realized why this moment felt so important. It wasn’t about the clothes.

At home, “perfect” used to mean control. Matching outfits. Everything planned. Everything curated. Even at Laurelwood, for years, I held onto that idea. I wore only my own clothes. Sharing felt risky, not just because something could get lost or stained, but because it meant letting go of the version of myself I had carefully built. Camp doesn’t really allow for that kind of control.

At Perlman, clothes moved freely. Items passed from bunk to bunk, camper to camper, until no one remembered where they came from.  And what I finally understood on the porch of Dorm 9 was this: sharing clothes is an act of trust.  Trust that things don’t need to be perfect. Trust that you don’t need to hold everything so tightly.  Trust that connection matters more than control.

Letting go of perfection didn’t mean losing myself;  it meant finding more of who I actually am. Once I stopped worrying about getting things “right,” I started showing up more fully. I leaned into late-night conversations. I danced even when I felt awkward. I spoke up even when I wasn’t sure my idea was perfect. That mindset didn’t stay at Perlman.

I carry it with me into leadership roles, planning programs, and building community. I’m more willing to pitch bold ideas, even if they might fail. I focus less on making things look flawless and more on making people feel included. Whether it’s leading Havdalah, organizing an event, or just showing up for the people around me, I try to create spaces where authenticity matters more than appearances.

When I think back to myself sitting on that porch in Dorm 9, I’m not embarrassed. I’m grateful. That moment taught me that growth doesn’t always come from big, dramatic experiences. Sometimes it comes from borrowed sweatshirts, messy bunks, and realizing that perfection is overrated. I didn’t just write my college essay on the porch of Dorm 9. I rewrote my definition of perfection there, too.  And honestly? I’ll take connection over control any day.