Cabins to Communities: Lessons in Shared Living, Leadership, and Loss

A personal reflection on how summer camp experiences teach profound lessons about leadership, community living, and navigating loss. This solo episode explores how the simple act of sharing space shapes our ability to lead with care and presence during both ordinary moments and times of crisis.

• Summer camp as the first experience of co-living – sharing everything from bathrooms to stories
• Camp counselors as "lollipop leaders" who make impact through small, often forgotten moments
• Leadership often looks like showing up consistently, not necessarily having all the answers
• The power of ritualized connection through handwritten "chicken letters" and personal notes
• Navigating transitions by acknowledging endings and making space for grief
• Building resilience through community and practicing how to live alongside difference

If we want stronger leaders, better neighbors, and more compassionate communities, we have to keep practicing how to live together. Let's honor the places and people who shaped us by how we show up for one another, especially in the hardest moments.

If you would like to support the Texas Hill Country community after the devastating floods, considering giving to the Community Foundation of the Texas Hill Country. https://www.communityfoundation.net/

Transcript

A Different Kind of Episode

Speaker 1 0:02

We're going in a little bit of a different direction with this episode. If you've listened before, you know that on-campus off-the-record is usually a conversation Me talking with guests from across higher ed and student housing, about leadership, careers, community and what it means to live and learn together. But today it's just me. This is a solo episode, something I've never done before. What it means to live and learn together, but today it's just me. This is a solo episode, something I've never done before. And the reason is simple Some stories require a little bit more of a personal touch.

Summer Camp: My First Co-Living Experience

Speaker 1 0:39

In the wake of the devastating floods in the Texas Hill Country and the loss experienced by the Camp Mystic community and beyond, I felt it was important to pause, to speak from the heart and to make space for both memory and meaning. At their best, summer camps are places of community learning and love. They bring people together from different backgrounds to live in simple shared spaces with bunk beds, daily chores and the kind of communal living that's both chaotic and sacred. Camp was my first experience with co-living, long before I even knew the term co-living. From the ages of 8 to 18, I spent the majority of my summers attending camp and let me be clear, it wasn't always comfortable. There was no air conditioning, just usually one fan blowing on me. We slept on squeaky metal bunk beds, sweating through the night and hoping for a breeze, and somehow we still managed to get a great night's sleep. 14 girls in one cabin meant sharing everything Space stories, bug spray, sunscreen and a shared comfort with letting your hair air dry and always making sure to take off a wet bathing suit. We learned how to clean sinks and showers, how to sweep under bunks and make sure our beds look neat and tidy for inspection. We learn that someone always has to get up in the middle of the night and you just learn to deal with it.

Speaker 1 2:11

I vividly remember sitting on a towel with my cabin mates on the concrete cabin floor perfecting how to shave our legs, awkward and proud, all of us giggling as we figured it out together. Those everyday moments were my first real lessons in how to live with others. They weren't glamorous, but they were foundational. If you've ever lived in a residence hall, a shared house or a tiny flat with thin walls, you know this feeling Shared bathrooms, noisy bunk mates and that one person who still hasn't figured out how to wash a dish Camp prepared me for all of it. I didn't know it at the time, because when you share space, whether it's with camp cabin mates, roommates or colleagues at work, you learn quickly that it's not just about managing fridge space or figuring out dirty dishes. It's about living alongside difference, negotiating space, practicing patience and learning when to speak up and when to let something go. Living in community requires a kind of everyday humility and a willingness to grow in real time in front of other people, and that's a life lesson I've been learning since those days at summer camp and actually I'm still learning it every day.

Speaker 1 3:28

As Simon Sinek says, leadership is not about being in charge. It's about taking care of those in your charge. It's about paying attention, doing your part, learning to be uncomfortable together and caring even when it's not convenient. And the truth is leading in those spaces, those shared spaces, isn't about hierarchy, it's about care, it's about presence and sometimes it's about learning to apologize when you forget to take out the trash.

Counselors as Lollipop Leaders

Speaker 1 4:02

At camp, the people who modeled that kind of leadership were the counselors. Now, did I love all my counselors? Of course not. I was 12 years old and full of opinions. But even when I didn't love them, I trusted them, especially when I was homesick or scared. They were college-aged women who carried a kind of quiet confidence I hadn't grown into yet. They were college-aged women who carried a kind of quiet confidence I hadn't grown into yet. They encouraged us to try new things, even when we were terrified. They listened, they noticed and they led simply by being there. I wanted to be like them one day.

Speaker 1 4:37

There's a TED Talk I love by Drew Dudley where he talks about something called lollipop leadership. The idea is simple but profound. Leadership isn't always about big titles or major decisions. It's about the small moments, often the ones we don't even remember, that end up making a real difference in someone's life. For me, that's exactly what camp counselors were. They were lollipop leaders. They didn't always know the impact they were making, whether it was helping me get through homesickness or cheering me on during swim tests or just sitting beside me when I felt out of place. They led through presence, through care and through consistency. It's not flashy, it's felt and it stays with you long after the cabin lights go out or you leave for the summer.

Speaker 1 5:26

In one of my first episodes I quoted Maya Angelou. She said I've learned that people will forget what you said. People will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel, and that's what those counselors did for us At Camp Mystic. Those counselors were led by Dick Eastland. Dick and his wife Tweedy had been directors for decades. Dick and Tweedy weren't just and aren't just the directors In many ways they are Camp Mystic. Together, their family, created a place where generations of young women could grow, lead and become themselves.

Leadership in Crisis Moments

Speaker 1 6:05

Dick's leadership presence was steady, his care constant. Dick gave his life to the camp he loved and in doing so impacted thousands. His life and his loss remind us that leadership is not always loud. Sometimes it looks like showing up day after day, Sometimes it looks like making things work when no one is watching, and whether you're a camp director, a community manager or a night shift facilities technician, the work often goes unnoticed until something breaks or something goes wrong. But those roles, they're the foundation of safe, thriving community living. They're the ones who show up early, stay late and fix the thing no one else sees. They don't always get thank yous, but they carry entire communities on their shoulders. And when tragedy strikes, whether it's a crisis on campus or a crisis in our community, those same leaders are often the first to respond. It's a kind of vocational leadership, a calling. It comes with deep devotion and sometimes far too much sacrifice. Leading in a crisis is never easy, but leading from your role in a crisis, your specific gifts and position matters.

Speaker 1 7:30

I remember back in 2011 when a tornado tore a mile-long hole through Tuscaloosa, alabama. I was working at the University of Alabama at the time and responsible for several residence holes. Thankfully, my building hadn't been damaged for several residence halls. Thankfully, my building hadn't been damaged. We didn't have power, but all of my residents were okay and we had a plan as a department and an institution. But still I was desperate to help the Tuscaloosa community. So I volunteered with a friend to assist in one of the neighborhoods that had been hit the hardest. We sat in the back of a pickup truck driving around and handing out water, and I remember as I sat there. This isn't how I'm supposed to be helping. Anyone can hand out water, but not everyone knows my residents the way I do. Not everyone can support them like I can.

The Power of Handwritten Letters

Speaker 1 8:21

That moment shifted something in me. It reminded me that sometimes the best way to help in a crisis is to do your job well, to know your lane and to stay in it, not out of limitation but out of trust. Trust that if we each play our part, the whole community benefits, and sometimes that also means stepping aside so others can lead in theirs. That kind of steady personal leadership, the kind rooted in care and presence, doesn't just shape who we are in the moment. It leaves an imprint, and sometimes we don't even realize it until years later, when something small, a smell, a song, a scribbled note brings it all rushing back.

Speaker 1 9:11

For me, one of the places that leadership and memory meet is in a box I've carried through moves, milestones and modern technology, full of written letters folded up notes from camp friends, cards from my parents and even letters I shared with my college friends. When I saved them I didn't think much of it. Now they're tiny paper time machines, poignant and powerful reminders of who I was and the people who shaped me. Now I'll be honest. I wasn't exactly a prolific letter writer. At camp Rest period I slept and my parents knew, hopefully, that no news was good news, except Sundays. Sundays were chicken letter days. To get into the dining hall for our beloved fried chicken lunch, you had to bring proof. A letter you wrote to someone back home, didn't matter who, didn't matter what you said no letter, no chicken. So we thought, and honestly, looking back, it's kind of brilliant, a gentle nudge to communicate a ritual with purpose, even if half those letters only said something like hi, I'm fine, Please send candy. Also, socks, love me.

Speaker 1 10:25

After camp, the letters didn't stop. I remember coming home from school and checking the mailbox hoping for something with my name on it, a letter from a camp friend or, even better, one of my favorite counselors. Some of those letters I still have, creased, smudged, scented, with who we were at the time. And now, in a world where some countries are phasing out letter delivery altogether, I treasure that box full of letters even more. They are slow communication, they are preserved memory, they are evidence of the connections that lasted long after beds were stripped and the trunks were shipped home. And they remind me of something I think we're craving more than we admit not just connection, but ritualized connection, moments that ask us to pause, to reflect, to reach out not with an emoji or a double tap, but with intention. In a world of instant, everything.

Speaker 1 11:26

The chicken letter is slow on purpose. It built a habit, it made space for thoughtfulness, it turned a simple act of communication into a ritual with meaning and a reward. We don't need to go back to paper to reclaim that kind of meaning, but we do need to keep asking what are the rituals that helped us feel seen? How do we build habits of care and connection, even in digital spaces, and what can we do to make communication less transactional and more transformational? Because leadership doesn't always look like a title or a microphone. Sometimes it looks like a folded note on your bunk bed or a post-it note on your computer screen, a message that says I see you, I remember you and I'm still here.

Speaker 1 12:16

At some point, though, the letters stopped. Maybe we moved on to email, Maybe we just drifted apart, but with each one that didn't arrive, there was a tiny sense of loss. Not just the message, but the rhythm, the anticipation, the feeling of being remembered, of being known, and that's the thing about connection. It's not always the big moments that stay with us. Sometimes it's the steady ones. It's going to your mailbox and seeing that red or blue envelope with that handwritten address in your name on it, the expected ones, the ones that tell us we matter Now, right now, people everywhere are carrying loss of all kinds Loss of homes, loss of routines, losses of places that shaped them, losses of communities they thought would last forever.

Navigating Loss and Building Resilience

Speaker 1 13:09

We build these communities hoping they'll stand the test of time, and often they do. But they're not immune to change and they're certainly not immune to loss. And that's why I keep coming back to the work of William Bridges, who wrote about the difference between change and transition. Change is external it's what happens to us, it starts and stops. Transition is internal it's the internal psychological process we go through as we learn to adapt to the change.

Speaker 1 13:40

According to Bridges, every transition begins with the same uncomfortable, often overlooked stage an ending, a loss. Endings are hard. They come with grief, disruption, disorientation and often tears. Sometimes we see them coming and other times they arrive like a thief in the night. Other times they arrive like a thief in the night. And yet naming that ending matters because if we skip that part, we try to rush through it or ignore the weight of what's been lost, we miss the chance to grieve, to honor what was no-transcript.

Speaker 1 14:22

And that's where leadership comes in, because the best kind of leadership in times of transition isn't about fixing everything right away. It's about helping people acknowledge the ending. It's about making space for the pause, the disorientation and the slow work of letting go. It's not loud, it's not always decisive, but it's steady, and often it looks like showing up with no answers, just a willingness to walk through the in-between. And that's what counselors did at camp, that's what RAs and housing professionals and mentors still do every day.

Speaker 1 15:00

They don't lead from above, they lead alongside, and in moments of crisis or profound change and scary transition, that kind of presence matters more than ever. Sometimes it starts with something as simple as a letter, or showing up in the middle of the mess, or reminding someone they're not alone, even if all you've got to offer is sitting beside them in silence. It may not feel like much of the time, but those moments, those are the ones we carry. And yet, somehow, through these moments, something else often rises, and that's resilience. Not the kind that makes a great Instagram caption, but the quiet, practice kind that comes from living together and getting through the hard things side by side in community. You learn how to knock on someone's door when they're hurting, how to lead when there's no clear map and no way ahead, and how to hold space and hold hope at the same time. That's not just a life skill, that's leadership and that's the gift of shared living, helping to boost our resilience in tough times, to acknowledge, hold space and move through the endings at a camp, in college or anywhere we choose to live with and for each other.

Speaker 1 16:24

Now, as I wrap up this reflection, I want to say something else too. Camp was an incredible gift for me and also a profound privilege. The cost, the culture, the access. It's not available to everyone and for many families camp isn't even on the radar. But that doesn't mean we can't love it, but it does mean we should be honest about it. But that doesn't mean we can't love it, but it does mean we should be honest about it. I am deeply grateful for those summers and I also recognize that not every child gets that kind of developmental, communal experience, which is why I believe so deeply in other places where community can be formed Sports teams, faith communities, residence halls, community organizations, all the structured spaces where young people learn to live, lead and move toward better together.

Speaker 1 17:13

I'll end with this Think about the first real community that shaped you and their leaders. Maybe it was a camp, a residence hall, a team, a job. Think about what it taught you, not just about others, but about yourself and about leadership, because some places leave an imprint, and some people do too. They stay with us, quietly, steadily, long after we've moved on. These places remind us who we are and who we're becoming. They show us how to live together, how to listen and how to lead with care, and when we lose them, or when they are changed forever, it's more than just a loss of space. It's a loss of something sacred, and for so many right now, that loss is still very, very real. The grief is still unfolding.

Speaker 1 18:07

So as we hold space for that, let's also honor the places and people who raised us and let's carry their lessons forward in how we live, how we lead and how we love each other and our communities, because if we want stronger leaders, better neighbors and more compassionate communities communities we have to keep practicing how to live together, and I want to thank you for spending time together with me today, for joining me in a different kind of episode. I don't take it lightly that you chose to listen, especially when the world feels heavy. This solo reflection was a departure from the usual format, but sometimes the moment calls for something more personal, something different, something rooted in memory, community and care, and let us continue to honor the places and the people who shaped us by how we show up for one another every day, especially in the hardest moments. This has been an episode of On Campus. Off the Record, I'm Elizabeth Cox. Take care and be good to each other.