The Summer I Stopped Running

I was going to be someone new at Camp Wawona. No more "Bear"—the embarrassing nickname from third grade when I got stuck head-first in the playground tube while wearing a bear costume my mom made. But plans have a way of getting wrecked.

"BEAR!" someone shouted across the mess hall on day one. Of course Tyler's cousin was here. Tyler, who lived down the street from me. Tyler, who'd already posted about my nickname on his Insta story with a literal bear emoji. I was mortified before orientation even ended.

Then I saw her. Riley. With the messy hair that looked intentional and the vintage band tee I'd been hunting for months. She was sitting alone, peeling a papaya with a plastic knife like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I started sitting closer. Not CLOSE close, but within spy distance. I learned she hated bugs, loved horror movies, and was always the last one eating. I learned this by accidentally-on-purpose walking past her table approximately 47 times per meal. Sue me. I was working up to saying actual words.

Wednesday was free swim at the lake. Everyone was already there—splashing, screaming, forming those instant friend groups that make you feel like you're watching from behind glass. I stood at the edge, overthinking everything. Riley was already in, treading water near the dock, looking annoyingly effortless.

"You coming in or what?" she called.

My brain short-circuited. "Yeah. Just. You know."

I waded in and immediately regretted everything. The cold. The fact that I'd never actually learned to swim properly. The looming embarrassment of potentially drowning in front of the coolest person I'd ever seen.

Riley swam over. "You good?"

"Totally," I lied. Then: "Actually, no. I'm kind of not."

She laughed. Not mean-laughed. Real laughed. "Here. Hold the dock."

She taught me to float. She didn't make fun of me. She didn't even mention the papaya incident where I'd accidentally sat on it during lunch. And she definitely didn't call me Bear.

Later, eating dinner together, she asked, "So what's your story?"

I hesitated. Then I told her everything. The nickname. The running from it. The summer reinvention plan.

"Bear's kind of badass though," she said, shrugging. "Bears don't care what anyone thinks. They just do bear stuff."

I looked at her—really looked at her. "You think?"

"I know."

I stopped running that summer. Not literally—I still had to run cross country in the fall. But the other kind. The running from yourself kind. And okay, maybe I was still Bear to some people. But the right people called me by my actual name. And that felt like winning.