We are nearing the end of another summer, and everything inside me feels it.

The mountain gave us a false fall this week—crisp mornings, soft wind, light that slanted a little differently through the trees. I stood in it one morning, coffee in hand, hoodie pulled tight, and for a second I thought maybe the world was trying to be gentle with us. Maybe it knew the unraveling had begun.

We have two weeks left. But the camp we knew is already fading.

The laughter is quieter now. The porch feels emptier. The rhythm we clung to—meals, moments, madness—it’s changed. We’re still running, still doing the work, but it’s more behind the scenes now. Hosting season has slipped in quietly, and we’ve shifted with it. Belay lines. Dining hall resets. Quiet glances exchanged in passing. Less ministry in the spotlight—more in the shadows.

We set the stage now. We sweep the floors. We stay up late and rise earlier, not for the grand moments but for the ones that go unseen.

And maybe that’s why it hurts more.

Because we’re still here, still giving, but the heartbeat of summer is fading—and it’s fading with us still in it.

Right now, I’m writing this from an empty office in the middle of UVA Kesem. Crossroads skeleton staff is on break, and all I can hear is the thump of a distant speaker as music spills from the field. It’s a weird contrast—how quiet it is where I sit, while celebration and movement still echo just outside.

It’s a fitting image for where we are. The party isn’t quite over, but we’re stepping back already. Preparing to let go.

The exhaustion is bone-deep. Soul-deep. The kind of tired that doesn’t just ache in your body—it seeps into your spirit. Like something you’ll carry long after you leave. But there’s also a quiet pride tucked into that fatigue, a knowing that you gave everything you had.

We always talk about how camp changes lives—and it does—but what doesn’t get said enough is how hard it is to come down from it. How hard it is to go from the deep connections formed under string lights and in sweaty dining halls back to the routines of school, work, and everyday life. The people we became here, the bonds we built, the long nights of laughter and tears and shared silence—they don’t always follow us back into the world.

That’s the bittersweet part.

The friendships we made feel like lifelines, like family. And now everyone is slowly packing up, returning to their homes and campuses, and corners of the world. Some of us will stay in touch. Some of us won’t. That’s just how life moves.

But right now, in this stillness—this moment between goodbye and real life—I’m choosing to remember it all. The messy, beautiful chaos. The moments of grace. The times we were too tired to stand but still showed up.

Because we did show up. In every weather. Every breakdown. Every last-minute reset. We stayed. We carried each other. We believed, even when it felt like we had nothing left to give.

Recovery week is coming, and I’m ready for it. My body aches. My mind is frayed. I need rest.

But before I let myself collapse, I want to honor the weight of this ending.

Because it meant something.

Because we meant something.

And we still do. Even here, in this quiet.