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James was not fitting in with everyone else. During lunch, he sat alone, playing with his own toys. During group activities, the other campers always complained when paired with him. What was wrong? As camp counselor, I quietly observed his behavior—nothing out of the ordinary. I just couldn't fathom why the other campers treated him like a pariah. After three days of ostracism, James broke down during a game of soccer. Tears streaming down his cheeks, he slumped off the field, head in his hands. I jogged toward him; my forehead creased with concern. Some campers loudly remarked, “Why is that creep crying?” Furious indignation leaped into my heart. They were the ones who “accidentally” bumped into him and called him “James the Freak.” It was their cruelty that caused his meltdown, and now they were mocking him for it. I sharply told them to keep their thoughts to themselves. I squatted beside James and asked him what was wrong. Grunting, he turned his back to me. I had to stop his tears, had to make him feel comfortable. So, for the next hour, I talked about everything a seven-year-old boy might find interesting, from sports to Transformers. “I have a question,” I asked as James began to warm to me. I took a deep breath and dove right into the problem. “Why do the other campers exclude you?” Hesitantly, he took off his shoes and socks, and pointed at his left foot. One, two, three … four. He had four toes. We had gone swimming two days before: All the campers must have noticed. I remembered my childhood, when even the smallest abnormality—a bad haircut, a missing tooth—could cause others, including myself, to shrink away. I finally understood. But what could I do to help? I scoured my mind for the words to settle his demons. But nothing came to me. Impulsively, I hugged him—a gesture of intimacy we camp leaders were encouraged not to initiate, and an act I later discovered no friend had ever offered James before. Then, I put my hand on his shoulder and looked him straight in the eyes. I assured him that external features didn't matter, and that as long as he was friendly, people would eventually come around. I listed successful individuals who had not been hindered by their abnormalities. And finally, I told him he would always be my favorite camper, regardless of whether he had two, five, or a hundred toes. On the last day of camp, I was jubilant—James was starting to fit in. Although the teasing had not completely disappeared, James was speaking up and making friends. And when, as we were saying our good-byes, James gave me one last hug and proclaimed that I was his “his best friend in the whole wide world,” my heart swelled up. From my campers, I learned that working with children is simply awesome. And from James, I learned that a little love truly goes a long way.

People. It always comes back to the people. Until this year, I never realized how important people are to me. How I care so much that sometimes it feels like too much, how I love to do little things to show I care and listen to their stories. Before she passed away when I was five years old, my grandma Betty wrote me a letter that I was to read when I'd grown up some and reached my late teens. That letter sat in boxes, on shelves and in hidden safe places for years, until I turned 16 and my mother passed the letter on to me. Grandma Betty was such a strong, caring and patient woman. She knew how to stay calm – that woman had a zero tolerance policy for nonsense. She did raise four boys out in the country after all. I'm sure my dad and his brothers were quite the hand full. I have one very vivid memory of staying with Grandma up at our family's cabin for a week in the summer when I was three. It was just the two of us. I don't remember everything we did during that week, but I do remember how grounding it was to spend that time with her. One day, when we were coming back from the market, we drove into the little gravel driveway in front of our humble cabin, and Grandma's face went still. She stayed perfectly calm, telling me how we were, “just going to stay in the car for a little while.” A huge, brown mama bear came lumbering down the road with her fuzzy cub not far behind. I remember watching curiously as the bears moseyed on up the road, minding their own business. Grandma explained to me, the bears weren't looking to cause any trouble, but if mama bear felt anyone was endangering the safety of her cub, she wouldn't hesitate to attack. I think the same can be said for most humans – if I see someone mess with a person I care about, mama bear will come out and I will stand up for what I believe in. Many of the things that define who we are at the core of our being are formed before our fifth birthday. Grandma Betty didn't know me very long, but in her letter she nailed so many aspects of who I am that are true to this day. I share my grandma's belief that people matter – they are important and their opinions count. The first time I read some of the things she hoped I would do and become, I remember being overwhelmed by the sensation of being so well understood. Grandma did love to people watch. “I know you will grow up to be a thoughtful and caring young woman who values her own strengths. I know how hard it is going to be for you to be a young woman who cares for others but still recognizes the importance of yourself.” This is a tightrope I have always struggled to walk. Being in close relationships of any kind is one of the most challenging things in the world, because you can't control what other people do or say. It also one of the most rewarding. When I care for others, I love with my whole being. I dive in and entrust them with pieces of my heart, pieces of who I am. The minute I want to really get to know a person, I walk into those relationships with my palms facing the sky, open and honest because I don't know how to be anything else - that's just who I am. The willingness to be vulnerable can be seen as a weakness, or it can be seen as a great strength. But know that it does not make anyone fearless. Vulnerability is terrifying. It is living with your beating, bleeding heart on your sleeve. It is trusting that others will not take advantage of your willingness to do and be and care with every fibre of your being. And that trust can be oh, so hard. Sometimes vulnerability hurts. I have cuts, minor burns, and a few jagged scars criss-crossing the surface of my heart. We all do. You can choose to let that pain make you bitter, cynical and closed off from the world. Or you can choose to accept it, to let it make you stronger and let those be lessons learned, to let yourself be healed by the love of those around you. Because vulnerability can be painful, but it can also be so deeply fulfilling to let others into your corner of the world. I walk into the world with open palms because for me, there is no other way. The alternative is far more painful than anything I've known and oh, so lonely. In order to be honest with others, I've first had to learn to be honest with myself. In order to truly love others in the way they deserve to be loved, I must first learn to love myself for who I am. I have to define who I am and what I believe, because you attract what you are, not what you want. People in life are a mirror, and the ones closest to you are a reflection of what's going on inside. For a long time, I've been frustrated – I feel like I never quite fit in anywhere, that I never had one person or one clique or one group that was my own. I've always felt loved by many but I was never the first person they'd call. Maybe one day I'll find that. Maybe not. Maybe it's easy to see all the spaces I don't fit because instead, I'm meant to spill into all the cracks that others can't fill. And maybe that's okay.

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