These Roots Need Room to Grow

How Quitting My “Dream Job” Changed My Life

Words by Forest Knight

In January of 2023, I started what I thought of as my “dream job.” I was 23 years old, working at a soul-sucking office job in the city I grew up in, and surrounded by people close to retirement. So when the opportunity to move to the middle of nowhere to help run a nature camp for middle-schoolers appeared, I jumped at the opportunity. 

I had been a summer camp counselor since I was 16 years old and wanted more than anything to work at camp all of the time, but the nature of seasonal outdoor education work didn’t seem sustainable or like the “real” job I was supposed to start after finishing college. Hence, the soul-sucking office job I found myself in, and why I was so ready to leave. 

You might think, “What is a 23-year-old lesbian with radically left politics doing moving to rural Ohio in the dead of winter? This can’t end well.” Well, it didn’t, and while I ended up quitting about a year and a half later (I stayed too long, I know), it wasn’t all bad. 

The world of outdoor education is one of magic. I was essentially paid to take kids on hikes in the woods and teach them everything I knew about nature. As a seasonal instructor, the only downside I saw was the grueling 13-hour work days, but this full-time job was a rude awakening to the administration and politics of the camping and education sector. I found myself in a space where my identity and sense of self were political, and my beliefs were a threat, even if my boss didn’t fully know my political leanings. 

While every day seemed to hold some kind of crisis, the worst didn’t hit until the summer. As previously mentioned, I love summer camp. It is my bread and butter, the thing I wait for every year. I survive winter on memories of campfires, fireflies, and lying under the stars (just me, some random coworker I met a week ago, and ten to twenty middle schoolers, it’s the dream). So to say I had high expectations is an understatement. 

During spring, I was mostly left alone to run the educational programming with my two co-directors: one I loved, and one I clashed with at every turn (the latter was a man, duh). But summer arrived along with a hierarchy and culture shift. No longer were the three of us equals, but my other director and I were expected to sit in our office, out of sight and out of mind. 

Any question we posed about summer programming to our male co-director or our boss was seen as a criticism and taken as an argument. Even (you might say especially) when our questions had to do with the mental or physical safety of our campers. Being concerned about their safety and trying to make any changes that would positively contribute to the well-being of our campers and staff was categorized as complaining. They boiled down our concerns to the fact that we needed everything to be a “safe space,” or else we would cause problems. 

But cause problems we did. Unfortunately for my boss, he didn’t hire two femme people who would sit quietly in the face of his sexism. I am not proud of the fact that during those five weeks almost every conversation I had with my male co-director ended in raised voices and a fight (okay, maybe I’m a little proud), but I could not bring myself to stand down in the face of their anger and frustration at my existence. 

The solution my boss proposed was to separate; he would get to run the summer camp,  my other co-director and I would get the spring and fall middle school programs. This shift gave me hope that we could continue into the fall without the oppressive culture of the institution we were a part of. 

That was wishful thinking. By this point, I had been at this job for going on 9 months. If you read the texts I sent or overheard the phone calls I had with my college and childhood friends, you could never in a million years figure out why I was still there. The sexism was one thing, but since I lived at the camp, I was also constantly living in a state where I had no electricity or running water. Once “working” hours were over, no one seemed to care about my well-being, even though for me, those hours never ended. Despite all of this, I was determined to persevere and keep working (thank you, capitalism). 

Little did I know, I was about to enter a season where my boss would threaten to shut down our program multiple times, simply because he did not know how to handle conflict or change with the times. Did I intentionally hire a house full of other Queer people to work with me that season? No. But what can I say? Outdoor education is a diverse field filled with many

women, Queer people, and people of color. The entire concept lends itself to diversity and inclusion. We teach about the abundance of the Earth and all of the amazing and interconnected processes in nature. 

All that to say, when a rumor spread on Facebook that our camp was letting “men in skirts” take care of their children, alongside the good old trans bathroom discourse, my boss did not take it well. I feel obligated to say that in small, personal moments, he tried to be understanding and to learn, but under the stress of the workplace, he could not handle our existence. No matter how much he enjoyed making small talk with us, he would prioritize himself and throw me, my co-director, and our staff under the bus before ever taking responsibility for himself. At best, we inconvenienced him, and at worst, we terrified him. 

Can you believe I stayed for almost 6 more months after that? Life is wild. 

In the end, I stayed for four seasons: two springs, a summer, and a fall. I learned (by necessity) how to lead a program with little-to-no support, how to problem solve, and how to advocate for myself and for others to the best of my ability. In the deepest part of myself, I wouldn’t trade in that time, and while it left me burnt out and angry, I now know what work shouldn’t feel like. 

Flashforward to the present day, I spent my last fall at an outdoor education program in New England that showed me I can do this work in a place that cares about me and at one that believes that our unique identities add to the work, not take away from it. I currently live in Philly with two of my favorite people in the world (and our cat and frog, of course). I’m only just beginning to understand the negative toll that toxic environment took on my mental and physical health. And while my career path is still a little hazy, I know I’m surrounded by people wholove and care about me. 

I’ve learned that just because you are doing good, meaningful work, doesn’t mean you need to take shit from sexist homophobes and transphobes or force yourself to live in unlivable conditions. There are children in need everywhere. I learned I can’t save them all, but if I’m going to teach or help anyone, I need to allow myself to live and work in an environment that cares about me and lets me grow. The personal is political and so is the workplace. They cannot stay separate. All we have in this life is our community, and I am so thankful for mine.