I still remember the first day I walked into the gymnasium at my summer camp site. I had a key. I had a four-digit code. I had a contact name. I was ready.

Well—so I thought.

I punched in the code. Nothing. Tried it again. Still nothing.

Now the alarm is going off. Not just your cute little beeping. I’m talking full-blown, somebody’s-about-to-jump-through-the-window levels of screaming. And no one else was there because, of course, I was fashionably early. I’m panicking. Shaking. Waiting for the cops to show up and haul me out for trying to break into a church.

And then—like a guardian angel wrapped in orthopedic sneakers—this little old lady pulls up. She parks, looks me dead in the face, and says, “Who are you?” I’m trying to stay calm and explain. “I’m here with the summer camp!”

She squints. “What summer camp?”

She didn’t recognize me, didn’t know there was a camp scheduled, and I could tell by her tone she was this close to calling backup. Turns out, she lived nearby and was the emergency contact for the church building. She was staff adjacent. She was the neighborhood eyes and ears—and that day, my accidental savior. She calls Stacey, the church’s office manager, who confirms I’m supposed to be there.

“Well,” she says, “I’ll tell the cops not to come. Because if they show up, the church gets charged.”

And that was how my very first day as a summer camp director began—with a screaming alarm, a suspicious old lady, and a near-miss police report. That's leadership, baby!

Now, let’s talk about humble pie.

Because that was just the start of the mistakes that taught me what leadership actually means.

I didn’t set out to lead adults. I only applied to be a regular summer camp counselor. That’s it. I wasn’t even a camp kid growing up. Never sang around a fire pit. Never packed a trunk or rolled up a sleeping bag. This was a day camp, not an overnight one, so I figured I could hang.

I interviewed, told them about who I was and the work I’d been doing, not trying to impress anyone, just being real. A few days later, they called me back.

“We’d actually like you to interview for the director position.” *calls mom frantically*

I told them, “I’ve never been a camper. Never been a counselor.”

They said, “That’s okay. We see your potential.”

So now I’m running an entire site.

I had to learn everything—transportation, schedules, relationships with the host site, t-shirt orders, the camp phone, customer service, conflict resolution. My site was called Camp Faith Lutheran, and I had the most restrictive environment out of all the sites. We had only two designated rooms. Every other space had to be borrowed, negotiated, or finessed through relationship building. That place became HOME to me, my counselors and campers. When you work with what you have, you see the magic of what you have and stop focusing on what you don't.

I had the power to shape the entire day. When lunch happened. When breaks happened. What magic got made. And the buck stopped with me. Scary. Fun. Awesome.

I had an incredible team of counselors—most of them older, wiser, and full of grit. They were the type of people who gave their lunch to a hungry kid without hesitation. If I forgot what was next, they’d jump in. They took initiative. They saw what needed to be done and did it.

Well—most of them.

There was one counselor who was quieter. Reserved. Every time I gave them a task, they smiled and said, “You got it, Mr. Devin.” They were reliable, steady, and great with kids. But I never asked for their ideas. I didn’t come to them for input the way I did with the more vocal team members. When I was creating schedules or planning new camp activities, I floated ideas with the ones who spoke up first or stayed late to chat.

And I didn’t think anything of it—until evaluation season.

I gave that counselor great feedback. I told them they were dependable, a strong presence for the kids. But I also added, “I’d love to see you take more initiative.”

And they said something I’ll never forget.

“You never give me the chance to.”

I was stunned. I asked what they meant.

They said, “You talk to the other counselors more. You ask them what they think. You never ask me for my ideas—you just tell me what to do. And I do it.”

It hit me like a brick.

They were right. I was asking them to be more proactive, but I hadn’t made space for that to happen. I hadn’t invited them in. I was expecting them to chase me down with ideas, when I should’ve been reaching out and making room for them.

As a leader, it’s not enough to say “my door is open.” You have to go out, find your people, and bring them in. Especially the quiet ones. From that moment on, I started making intentional space for the quiet ones.

When I became a teacher, I asked the quiet kids what they thought. When I became an instructional coach, I made space for the soft-spoken teachers. And in every professional development session I lead now, I still do it—I make sure the quiet people get called in, not called out. Because I learned that some of the best ideas come from people who are just waiting for a signal that it’s safe to speak. They’re not hiding. They’re waiting to be seen.

That one moment at summer camp shaped how I show up now, years later. I no longer assume silence means lack of contribution. I don’t equate volume with value. I check who’s talking and who’s waiting. And I always ask myself—who have I not invited in yet?

So, if you’re a leader reading this, let me leave you with this:

Mistakes are going to happen. You’re going to get pies to the face—embarrassing ones. Painful ones. But if you let those pies teach you instead of shame you, they’ll make you better. More human. More humble. And far more effective.

And never forget that your biggest lesson might come from a summer camp, a screaming alarm, or a quiet counselor who was just waiting for a chance.