Better Late Than Never: Finding Comfort Zone Camp As An Adult
I still vividly remember the day I learned my dad died, sitting in my Nana’s front garden underneath her big tree that we always climbed as kids. A place which, before June 14th, 2007, was filled with so many good memories. For a while, walking into her front door brought back those terrible feelings, unending tears, and confusion, but it has become the place I remember memories of my dad the most.
When I was in 3rd grade, my dad had a series of fainting spells. One in the shower, one at work, and one in front of my brother, Morgan, and I while we were getting ready for school. I wish he had gone to the doctors sooner after his first fall, but my dad’s family has always been the type of family to only go to the doctor when you’re on death’s door. Little did we know, he was.
He was diagnosed with a benign brain tumor in late spring 2007, and had surgery scheduled for June 14th. The way the doctors described the surgery, it was supposed to be routine: get the golf ball sized lump of cells out of his head, have a few weeks of recovery, and be my dad again. That is not what happened.
After the surgery, he went through a series of strokes and seizures that killed him. No more dad.
I know most people think that their dad is the best dad, but it’s not even a competition. My dad was THE pokemon master for the hour of gameboy time we got before bedtime. He knew how to fish better than anyone in the world. He knew the best jokes. And he knew how to make me feel like the most special kid on Earth.
That first day is a blur in my mind, as well as the weeks, months, and years leading up to me telling my story on this blog. I do remember the pain I felt when I heard those words come out of my mom’s mouth. I remember how it felt like I was crying for both several hours and only a few minutes in the front garden. But I mostly remember the love that I felt from my entire family in my Nana’s kitchen, dining room, living room, and sunroom.
One thing I wish they told me in Grief 101 is that you go through what my family calls “The Dark Ages”. For the first year or so, everything is a blur. But, every once in a while, I get a glimmer of a memory from those times. Monday night pancakes with the Palermos, Wednesday night cooking and dinner with Uncle Wally and Aunt Christina, Thursday night dinners at Nana’s house, playing squash with Aunt Kim and Uncle Wally, and nerding out over Star Wars with Chris Ball are just a few of those memories. All of these people, and many, many more, are the reason my mom, my brother, and I are the humans we are today. People that loved my dad to the moon and back, sharing that love with us.
To put it plainly, grief sucks. At the age of 9, I had lost the most important person in my life, and I never wanted to feel how I felt in my Nana’s front garden again. So I never talked about my dad. My mom had to remind me, but, before every school year, she would ask my brother and I if we wanted our teachers to talk about our dad. It was always a quick and firm ‘no’ from me.
Looking back, I wish I would have talked more about him. I think my mom wanted this for me as well.
After graduating high school, my grief caught up with me. Without my strongest supporter, my mom, college was filled with too many valleys and not many peaks. I was constantly depressed, missing classes and only finding joy while playing squash. As a young kid, my dad had brought me to our local squash courts once to introduce us. It wasn’t until after he died that it became the most important part of my life. My mom brought my brother and I to hit around, and I continued playing while my brother followed in my dad’s footsteps to become an amazing lacrosse goalie. Late night lessons and clinics along with weekend tournaments soon filled my schedule. The squash court soon became my favorite spot in the world. And it became my only respite on our 216 acre campus. It was the only place I felt close to my dad.
After graduating in 2021, I started working at a small non-profit in Philadelphia that provides squash coaching and academic assistance to students called SquashSmarts. But I had no idea I would meet a 6th grader who would change my life. Santos started trying out for SquashSmarts in June 2022. I had known him for almost a year at this point in his school’s gym sessions, and I knew he was having trouble. One academic session, he was having a hard time focusing on writing an essay about his hero. He chose his dad, also a squash player, and I soon learned he had lost both of his parents when he was very young. We quickly bonded over our shared grief and love for squash. I slowly learned how to use my pain and grief to help him navigate his own journey. Our relationship became one like a Big-Little relationship at Comfort Zone. But it wasn’t until after moving away that I found Comfort Zone.
After moving from Philadelphia to New Haven, I struggled to find a place to help with my grief. I learned, through my relationship with Santos, that helping and bonding with people is the coping skill that helps me the most. And now I was without it. Luckily, one of my New Haven friends introduced me to a camp she had gone to as a kid in Virginia: Comfort Zone Camp. It’s funny how people who have lost a loved one have a sixth sense for others, almost like we are magnetized.
In July of 2023, I completed my volunteer training in Tappan Zee, NY. When I introduced myself, I got to share a little piece of my story and it felt like a weight lifted off my chest. I left feeling both excited and nervous, with a potential camp coming up in two months. I reflected after the 1.5 hour drive home, and I felt my dad for the first time in a while.
That warmth that makes you feel happy, loved, and engaged all at once. I was in my CZC era.
A few weeks later, I was matched with Chad. From all the indicators, he was an energetic 7 year old. What an understatement. I spent the entire weekend chasing him in the pouring rain. I don’t think we sat still except for Healing Circle. And yet I was as energized as I’ve ever been. He got to be just a kid again. Not Chad who lost a loved one, just Chad. Since September of 2023, I’ve been to every camp that is within driving distance. I’ve had the delight of spending a weekend with Chimoabi, Mikey, Brian, Miles, Jasten, and Cormac. Seeing each one of them grow in just 48 hours has been the privilege of my life and I look forward to seeing it every weekend when I am back at camp. I’ve also met some of my best friends, who are some of the best big buddies, healing circle leaders, and shoulders to cry on.
On the ride home from camp in Sandwich, MA, I called my mom, and for the first time in almost 15 years, we talked about my dad.
On a ride that was 3 hours long, I never wanted it to stop. She told me stories about how he was planning a party in his hospital gown. About how amazing a dad he was. And about how much we missed him. Without Comfort Zone Camp, I wouldn’t have been inspired by the bravery of these 7 kids to ask my mom the scariest questions. That same bravery keeps me coming back.
To anybody on the fence about volunteering: go for it. Your life will be changed for the better.
To my mom who has started her volunteering journey recently: you are the best mom Morgan and I could ask for and better. Even if you don’t believe it
And to my dad: you are my inspiration for everything I do. I hope one day to have the impact on someone’s life that you left on ours.
I don’t know who I would be without Comfort Zone Camp, but I know I’m a luckier person with ‘The Bubble’ in my life.
By: Tate Miller
