The Summer I Almost Drowned (Socially)

The padel court at Camp Wakanaki was where reputations went to die. At least, that's what I thought when I stepped onto it, clutching a rented racquet like my life depended on it. My iPhone sat in the locker room—a calculated risk because if I couldn't document my summer transformation, did it even happen?

"You're up, new girl," called Jake, the counselor whose abs definitely had their own Instagram account.

I was here because my parents thought I needed "socialization." I was here because I'd spent freshman year hiding in the library, my only real relationship being with my phone's screen time tracker. Seventeen and socially stunted. A total flop.

The game began. I missed the ball. Twice. My face burned hotter than the asphalt.

Then came the water break. I chugged like I'd been stranded in the Sahara, droplets cascading down my chin. Sophie—the queen bee who'd been giving me side-eye all week—approached. My stomach did that thing where it tries to exit through your throat.

"You're actually not terrible," she said. "You just grip it like you're scared it'll bite."

I laughed. A real one. She grinned back, and something shifted. We sat by the court, legs dangling, and she told me about her parents' divorce, about how perfect Instagram didn't mean perfect life. I told her about my anxiety, about how the bear of panic always sat on my chest before social situations.

"Wait," she said, pulling out her phone. "Let me show you something."

She'd been documenting everything too. Not just the highlights—the real stuff. Me flailing at the padel ball. Her wiping out during capture the flag. The midnight snack raids.

"It's not about being perfect," she said. "It's about being real."

That night, I finally FaceTimed my best friend from home. "You won't believe it," I said. "I made friends. And I'm kind of... happy?"

The bear on my chest? Gone. Drowned in a lake of padel courts and real conversations and the kind of water that doesn't destroy—it refreshes.