My Daughter Went to Camp

I dropped my 5-year-old daughter off at camp for the first time and then stood in the parking lot like a total creeper.

I wish I were exaggerating.

I lingered. I watched. I debated whether I should leave. I debated whether I should stay. I debated whether I should walk back over and wrap my arms around her.

And all the while, I kept telling myself the same thing:

Go home, Ilana. Get out of the parking lot. Go have some coffee and breathe. Or at least just stop loitering in the parking lot waiting for every mom you know to provide a detailed report on your daughter’s whereabouts and emotional state.

The thing is, I wasn’t just dropping my daughter off at camp.

I was dropping off my heart.

Motherhood is funny that way.

Some days, my kids are yelling, fighting, pulling out chunks of each other’s hair, making requests every 26 seconds, and testing every ounce of patience I have. On those days, I count down until bedtime.

And then the second they’re gone, I miss them, and I find myself scrolling through pictures of them or studying the monitor to make sure I can see their chest rise and fall.

I worry about them.
I wonder if they’re okay.
I feel like a piece of me is missing.

On her first day of camp, my husband and I dropped her off together. She had a wonderful day. She came home smiling and happy.

Day two hit harder.

(Though truth be told, I was a bundle of nerves on day one too, but I didn’t want to project my anxiety onto her, and I had my husband with me, who is not one to linger in a parking lot.)

Most likely, day two hit harder because I was solo and had more space to think and linger.

Or maybe it was because that morning I watched her standing alone in the gym.

A counselor had kindly taken her by the hand and shown her where to put her backpack. Then the counselor walked away.

And there stood my five-year-old.
Confused.
Unsure.
Trying to figure out where she belonged.

I stood frozen, watching her back, not knowing if I should run to her.
Do I go help her?
Do I trust the counselors, who look approximately twelve years old?
Do I leave?
Do I stay?

I couldn’t seem to move.

Eventually, the counselor looked back, noticed my daughter still standing there, and walked her into the room to color with the other kids.

She did see me when she turned around, and luckily, she didn’t run to me. I smiled at her, and she sort of half-smiled back.

Only then did I feel like I could breathe.

And yet I still didn’t leave.
I lingered.
I watched through the window.
I looked for signs that she was okay.

Then I ran into another parent. And another.

If I’m being honest, I was probably hoping someone would tell me they’d seen my girl smiling.

One mom did. She told me my daughter was happily coloring with some of the older kindergarten boys.

It felt absurd how relieved I was by that tiny tidbit of information. (And then thought why is she with the older boys and not her friends from her class? But I quickly stopped that line of thinking from spiraling further out of control. She was happy and coloring. Full stop, ruminating mom brain.)

Another parent shared a story about her child who had a really hard first day and only agreed to come back because a friend called.

Another mom shared how when she brought her child into the room where my daughter was, her child wanted to go into a different room to find a friend. She asked my daughter if she wanted to come too, but she declined.

None of these moments had anything directly to do with my daughter.

And yet every single one landed somewhere inside me.

Because if I’m honest, I wasn’t just worrying about camp.

I was worrying about belonging.
Would she make friends?
Would she feel included?
Would she have fun?
Would she choose someone?
Would someone choose her?

And beneath all of that was an even older question:Would I?
Flashbacks to my first day of camp came crashing into my mind and heart.

Because some questions don’t stay in childhood.
They just get quieter. Until something—a camp drop-off, a playground, a birthday party—brings them rushing back to the surface.

As parents, we like to believe we’re worried about our children.
Sometimes we are. Oftentimes, we are.
And sometimes our children unknowingly bump into old bruises we forgot we were still carrying.

Standing in that parking lot, I wasn’t just thinking about my daughter.
I was thinking about being in fifth grade and being chosen last.
I was thinking about feeling left out.
I was thinking about a period in my life when I desperately wanted to belong to one group, only to discover later that they weren’t my people at all.
I was thinking about how painful it can feel when a door doesn’t open.
And, I was also thinking about how many times I have truly felt grateful for some of the places and people those closed doors eventually led me to.

It’s funny how the mind works.

I can remember being chosen last decades later.
I can still feel it.
Yet I can barely remember anything else about that particular class.

One hard moment somehow outweighs hundreds of ordinary and good ones.
Our brains do that.
They cling to the painful memories and quietly forget the rest.

By the time I got home, I was completely overwhelmed.
And here’s the part where I wish I could tell you I practiced what I preach.
I wish I could tell you I journaled.
I wish I could tell you I regulated my nervous system.
I wish I could tell you I asked myself better questions.

I didn’t.
I tried.
But I couldn’t access that part of me.

Instead, I laid on the couch, listened to a werewolf romantasy audiobook, scrolled my phone, and checked out for a while.

My brain had short-circuited.
I knew the tools.
I teach the tools.
And I couldn’t reach them.
I was absolutely beating myself up for that.

But a few hours later, I was able to see it differently. That morning wasn’t just about camp.

It was about loving my child so fiercely that every uncertainty feels personal.
It was about trusting strangers with something precious, my heart.
It was about wanting her to be physically safe and emotionally safe.
It was about wanting her to have fun, make friends, and feel included.
It was about remembering what it felt like not to AND reminding myself to remember what it felt like to have fun, make new friends, and feel included.

Most of all, it reminded me that parenting doesn’t just raise children.
It raises us, too.

Every drop-off.
Every transition.
Every new experience.
Every worry.
Every moment we have to step back and let them figure something out without us.
It asks us to revisit pieces of ourselves we thought we’d long outgrown.

The truth is, I don’t want to prevent my daughter from ever experiencing disappointment.

I don’t want to rescue her from every hard feeling. (Though that is certainly my first impulse to want to protect her from everything and anything).

I want her to learn that she can survive them.

And maybe I need that reminder, too.

Maybe the goal isn’t making sure our children never feel left out.
Maybe the goal is helping them trust that one moment doesn’t define them.

One room doesn’t define them.
One friendship doesn’t define them.
One hard day doesn’t define them.
And if a room isn’t right for them, there are other rooms.
Other people.
Other friendships.
Other places where they will belong.

That’s what I would tell my daughter.

And if I’m being honest, it’s what I would tell my younger self, too. It’s a reminder I also need to give my current and future self.

So next time I find myself standing in the parking lot conducting a full sociological study of the playground, I will remind myself that there isn’t a social problem to solve.

Sometimes there’s just a vulnerable mom standing in a parking lot trying to protect her child from every possible future hurt.

And sometimes the bravest thing we can do is get in the car and go home.

When I picked her up, she was happy.
Not ecstatic.
Not transformed.
Just happy.
She told me she didn’t want to go back the next day.
And then she went anyway. And the day after that, too.

The same little girl I spent all morning worrying about.
The same little girl I wanted to rescue from uncertainty.
The same little girl who, it turns out, was already doing exactly what I hope she’ll learn to do:

Feel scared.
Feel unsure.

And keep going.

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I’d love to hear from you: Has parenting ever brought up an old wound, memory, or insecurity you thought you’d moved past?

(And if you’ve ever conducted your own unofficial sociological study of the playground from a parking lot, solidarity.)

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If this season of letting go, growing up, and watching your children spread their wings feels tender, you might also enjoy:

• Your Child isn’t the Only One Growing — where I explore what camp drop-off brought up for me as a mom.

If this piece stirred something in you, you’re not alone.

The Guided Journal, Truth Cards, and other resources I create are designed for moments exactly like these—the moments when motherhood brings up old stories, big feelings, and parts of ourselves we didn’t expect to revisit.

You can explore them in the Your Non-Linear Journey Shop.