the tent bag.

Dear Friend,

The mountain air tasted like the first bite of a Honeycrisp apple as I sat in my familiar chair. My tent had a thin layer of mountain frost covering the rain fly, and birds chattered in the pine trees. I looked around the campground and not a soul was anywhere to be found.

It was my first camping trip on my own, and I was facing a hard truth:

I needed coffee.

I had camped countless times before. From sea to shining sea, I thought I knew what I was doing. Until I realized how many parts of camping I had simply never learned for myself.

For years, someone else had naturally taken the lead—putting up tents, gathering wood, lighting stoves, navigating roads. I had become very good at settling into the passenger seat of it all.

Somewhere along the way, I quietly absorbed the idea that certain things belonged to other people, not me. Camping became less about participating and more about watching the world unfold from a chair beside the fire.

But now there was no one else there. And coffee meant lighting the propane stove.

I have always been afraid of propane. One wrong move and suddenly your eyebrows and arm hair are POOF in a millisecond. Lighting a propane stove felt intimidating to me in a way I couldn’t fully explain.

I remember writing in my journal that morning:

“I am terrified… but coffee.”

Using my satellite messenger—because deep in the mountains communication with the outside world was nonexistent—I texted a friend for help. Encouragement came quickly, along with a simple explanation of how to safely light the stove.

So I went for it.

It didn’t explode.

A few minutes later, I was holding a hot cup of coffee in my freezing hands. Strong and bold, exactly the way I liked it.

Perfect.

Bolstered by this tiny victory, I decided to tackle a fire. I gathered damp wood from around camp and spent the next four hours producing little more than smoke. Wet wood, it turns out, does not care about your personal growth journey.

By then I had convinced myself I was not cut out for solo camping. Cold and discouraged, I walked to the nearby lake to warm up.

That’s when I started noticing something deeper underneath all of it.

I was constantly waiting for someone to rescue me.

It wasn’t entirely my fault. I think many of us inherit quiet beliefs without realizing it. Growing up, I watched my dad protect, provide, carry the heavy things, and light the fires. I learned competence through observation, but dependence through habit.

There’s nothing wrong with letting someone care for you. But somewhere along the way, I stopped believing I could care for myself too.

The truth is, relationships can slowly shape us into versions of ourselves we no longer recognize. Not because anyone intended harm, but because roles get established quietly over years. One person handles this. The other handles that. And eventually you stop reaching for skills you once might have learned. 

Sometimes I wonder if part of healing is simply learning to trust yourself again. To sit quietly with who you are beneath all the roles you once carried for other people.

Eventually, I drove into town and bought a fire starter. And once that fire was finally lit, I never let it die for the next three days.

I sat beside it writing for hours on end. Painting. Praying. Laughing. Crying. Healing. It felt like years of therapy compressed into four days.

As I packed up camp to leave, smoke clinging to my sweatshirt and dirt beneath my fingernails, I realized I had done every part of it on my own.

Propane. check.

Fire. check.

And maybe, as I drove away, I was weirdly proud of getting the tent back into its original bag.

Love for you always,

Kelly