Community Service from a High School Perspective

Feeling overwhelmed as a freshman at C.E. Byrd High School, I made a decision that would end up changing the course of my high school experience—I joined YoungLife. At the time, I didn’t really know what I was getting into, but I was desperate for a sense of belonging, for a place where I could be myself without fear or judgment. I found that community in YoungLife, a group that gave me something I didn’t realize I was desperately lacking: time and space to feel my feelings, speak my mind, and, most importantly, show my love and appreciation for others. My anxiety had always been a heavy blanket over my life, muffling my ability to express myself authentically, but YoungLife slowly helped lift that burden.

During my freshman year, I met Anjali, a sophomore girl at Byrd whom I admired immensely. She was vibrant, confident, and kind—everything I aspired to be. One afternoon after school, Anjali smiled at me and said, “Come to YoungLife! You were made for this!” At the time, I didn’t quite understand what she meant. I was hesitant, self-conscious, and terrified of rejection. But something about the sincerity in her voice nudged me forward. Little did I know how right she was.

Fast forward to my junior year of high school: after two years of growing within YoungLife, I decided to take a leap of faith and apply for Work Crew. Work Crew is a volunteer program where high schoolers spend a month of their summer working at one of YoungLife’s many camps. The catch? No phones, no social media, no technology at all—and absolutely no pay. As a member of Generation Z, the thought of surviving a month without my phone was almost unthinkable. How would I stay connected? How would I pass the time? Despite my fears, something deep inside me—maybe the very part Anjali had seen in me years earlier—wanted to do something bold. I wanted to break out of my comfort zone, tackle my anxiety head-on, and experience something bigger than myself.

I was assigned to Sharptop Cove, a YoungLife camp nestled in the mountains. I received the call that I would be serving as a housekeeper, and while the idea of scrubbing toilets and folding laundry for a month didn’t exactly sound glamorous, I was determined to embrace the opportunity fully. I boarded a plane, flying across the country by myself, both nervous and excited for what was ahead.

From the moment I stepped onto the campgrounds, something felt different. The air smelled fresher, the people smiled wider, and the spirit of the place felt electric. Within days, I was thrown into a fast-paced routine: cleaning cabins, serving food, folding endless piles of fitted sheets, and bonding with a group of strangers who would soon become some of the most important people in my life.

I can confidently say that Work Crew was the best four weeks of my life—a statement I repeated enthusiastically to anyone who asked after I returned home. It wasn’t because of the beautiful mountains or the delicious camp food (though both certainly helped). It was because of the people and the bonds we formed. There’s a saying that to be loved is to be seen, and never in my life had I felt more seen than I did by four incredible girls: Lauren, Kate, Leah, and Ella. Though we worked in different areas—some in the kitchen, some on landscaping, some in housekeeping like me—we found time for each other every single day.

One of our favorite traditions was “fat farm time” at 4 o’clock each afternoon. Despite the somewhat silly name, it was one of the most precious parts of my day. We’d gather on a rickety old bench outside Cherokee, our motel-style dorm, with whatever snacks we could scrounge up. It didn’t matter if others came and went; the four of us were always there, laughing, talking, and sharing parts of ourselves we rarely showed others. Our conversations ranged from deep, emotional life stories to playful debates over who deserved the last strawberry Sour Patch Kid. (Usually, I won those arguments—years of working summers at my dad’s law firm had taught me a thing or two about presenting a convincing case.)

During these moments, I began to feel a shift within myself. I realized that my thoughts, my feelings, my opinions—they mattered. They had value. I wasn’t just a background character in my own story; I had a voice worth hearing. That realization was monumental for me.

Things were going so well that I almost forgot to expect homesickness. By the start of week two, I hadn’t really missed much beyond my favorite pillow and the brief dopamine hits from opening my phone. But life has a way of throwing curveballs. On the third night of the second week—Western Night, one of the biggest themed events of camp—we dressed up in cowboy gear, served guests, performed a hilarious tableau, and danced to old country songs. It was one of the best nights… until it wasn’t.

Later that night, I felt a sharp pain in my right ear. Within a few hours, my eardrum had burst. Alone in my bunk bed, curled up in pain, I expected the old familiar feeling of “impending doom” to wash over me—the same feeling I had described to my elementary school counselor so many years ago. But it didn’t. Instead, there was just pain. No fear, no panic. Just pain, and strangely, a sense of resilience.

The next morning, the staff sat me down and asked if I wanted to fly home early. It was tempting—who wouldn’t want to escape that kind of discomfort? But the idea of leaving felt even more painful than my ear. I hadn’t come this far to quit. I chose to stay, and in doing so, I discovered new ways to find joy in even the most mundane tasks.

Folding fitted sheets—normally a frustrating task—became hilarious with friends and One Direction blasting over the speakers. Delivering towels early in the morning gave me small, meaningful interactions with campers who reminded me why our work mattered. And without technology, I learned the beauty of boredom—the creativity, the presence, the simple fun that comes from being fully engaged in the moment.

Work Crew taught me that growth doesn’t come from comfort. It comes from challenge, from pain, from facing fear and saying, "I’m staying anyway." I left Sharptop Cove stronger, braver, and more certain of who I am. And it all started with a simple invitation: “Come to YoungLife. You were made for this.”

Turns out, I was.