I was seventeen. I had just completed my junior year of high school, so naturally, I felt absolutely squashed beneath the weight of my future. All high school long, teachers had been dropping dangerous phrases that landed around my feet like bombs, such as ACT, AP classes, FAFSA, scholarships, and graduation. My little organized world, predictable and safe, was unwinding like a loose thread from my sleeve. I was convinced something was wrong with me because I didn’t have a response for the adults who asked me what I wanted to major in or where I wanted to study.

I handled the college transition as only an afraid, insecure teenager could: I became an expert in the art of avoidance.

In my room, I had a dresser drawer overflowing with college brochures, lengthy applications, and invitations to campus-access weekends. When I was accosted at the mailbox by a packet stamped with a university logo, I didn’t give in to panic—simply into the drawer it went.

I was truly pleased by my ability to keep myself ignorant, but unfortunately, my dad did not operate by my shove-it-in-the-drawer system.

One afternoon, my dad opened an email from Asbury University advertising their summer program for high school students. I was in the room when it happened. It was one of those moments where you see your doom impending right in front of you, like when an elbow collides with a glass of ice water, and you watch helplessly as it crashes across the table. Dad was over the moon with the idea of me spending a week on a college campus, meeting new people, and trying new things. Meanwhile, I was the puddled mess of spilled water on the table. I could not have handpicked something I wanted to do less.

I’m embarrassed now by how much energy I spent fighting him on it. Defeat hung on my heart like a washcloth soaked in sadness when I finally realized there would be no talking him out of it.

Dad was forcing me to face my greatest fear prematurely. I tumbled through all the fears that accompany trying something new. I didn’t want to get lost on campus, sit alone during meal times, or meet new college people with new college-people faces who would plague me with questions I wasn’t equipped to answer.

But I went to the camp, and it was great. Truthfully, that experience laid the foundation that supported me in making the decision of what I wanted to do after graduation. But instead of spotlighting the influence that week had on my life, I want to call the supporting role in my story to center stage.

Because of my dad, now I’m the person behind the desk with the college-person face, welcoming kids and parents as they arrive the first day of camp and collecting room keys the day they leave. And I’ve been surprised to find myself rather sentimental about it.

It’s my job to be close enough so that if parents or students need any help, I’m readily available, yet far enough away that I don’t dominate their experience with my presence. This gives me a great excuse to people watch.

My heart twists when, on the first day of camp, I see a dad dragging along his daughter’s luggage; when I see his polo shirt, plaid shorts, and white socks; when he asks desk workers questions concerning his daughter’s safety or schedule; and worst of all, when he gives her a tight hug and drives away. And in instant, I remember how it felt to be left. Yeah, just for a week, but when it’s Monday of camp, Friday feels pretty inconceivable.

The raw spot on my heart for home hasn’t gone away. Home is still a place of comfort and one-of-a-kind familiarity to me. The difference now is I don’t want to go home because I’m scared to go somewhere else, to venture somewhere new and scary; I like going home because my family is there. My dad is there, mowing the lawn, paying a water bill, or relaxing in his recliner with his white socks up in the air. And the whole reason that home means so much more now is because my dad pushed me to travel some place new.

Now, being “left” on a college campus isn’t the end of the world. In fact, I’m choosing to stay here instead of being forced. This place is my home too, with different family members and fresher memories. I have relationships and roots here. And I’m thinking that’s the best thing a dad can do: to do everything he can to essentially uproot his child when the child’s too scared to do it for themselves, only because he knows his kid will take root somewhere new and grow more than they ever expected they would.

Years ago, my dad believed, more than I did, that I could carry some independence and tangle/untangle myself from a few messes. It’s three years too late, but I thank him for that.

I’ve discovered that check-out days are my favorite because all the dads come back. I watch as the same dad from Monday drags the same luggage in the opposite direction, wearing a different polo and shorts. And this time, he pulls out of the drive with his daughter riding shotgun. I’d say that’s my fondest memory of camp: driving back home with the windows down, gushing endlessly to my dad about all I learned that week, pausing long enough to notice his smile and appreciate how intently he’s listening.