Our Story

I remember the exact feeling of arriving at camp that summer — the gravel crunch under the bus tires, the sound of vibrant conversations, the smell of dry oak, dirt, and sunscreen.

I remember the strange, quiet relief of realizing nobody there knew which apartment I'd come from, how many schools I'd already cycled through, or that I was the new kid again. At camp, I wasn't behind. I wasn't catching up. I was just there, on day one, same as everyone else.

That had never been true anywhere else.

By the time I was a teenager, I'd already gone to three elementary schools and started over at a brand-new high school my sophomore year. I know what it's like to open the door to an empty fridge, to flip on a light switch and brace for what's living in the walls, to fill up old milk jugs in case the water didn’t come on, yet again, just so we could flush the toilet.

I know what it's like to sleep in the closet on a pool floatie, clothes on for the next day, because someone dangerous would come looking for me in the night. My brothers and I treated unpleasant experiences like games, such as hide and seek, because the alternative was being scared.

Every move taught me how to introduce myself again, how to read a new room fast, how to survive being unknown, how to carve paths to possibility.

What I didn't know how to do was rest in a place. Camp was the first time I did. I eased through the cafeteria line carrying heaps of spaghetti and garlic bread (contrary to most kids, I rarely got this growing up in a Vietnamese household).

I got to camp because my adopted parents and new church community made it possible. We had youth group car washes, I was selling lollipops. Fundraising has been something I’ve been doing since 1st grade jumping rope to raise money for the American Heart Association.

We got a week away and to crash in bunk beds and just have fun with other kids.

That week taught me what it feels like when belonging finally shows up. Not earned, not performed — just given.

I think about that a lot now, because I know I'm not the only kid who's waited for that feeling. In the Puget Sound, there are children navigating instability I recognize immediately — housing that isn't guaranteed, schools that change more often than they should, a childhood spent managing things no child should have to manage. Some of them are waiting for the version of camp I got. Many of them will wait far longer than I did, or won't get it at all, because a week away isn't cheap, and it's rarely the first thing a stretched family can afford.

That gap is why The Summer Camp Project exists.

We're a new organization — young enough that we're still building the systems and partnerships that will let us measure our impact the way I want us to, honestly and rigorously, not just anecdotally. But the mission isn't new to me. It's the truest thing I know: every child deserves a week to thrive, to explore, and to simply be a kid, without having to earn it first.

If this story sounds familiar to you — if you remember your own version of that bus ride, that light switch, that first breath of relief — I hope you'll consider being part of what we're building.

Our monthly giving community, The S'mores Society, exists for exactly this: $100 a month, given over a year, sends one child to a full week of overnight camp. It's a small, steady commitment that adds up to something I didn't have until I was thirteen.

We nurture curiosity here. Come nurture it with us.

[Join The S'mores Society →]