I’m a relationship facilitator based in Toronto, married with three kids. Camping has been part of my life since childhood — reflecting on it now, I realize it shaped nearly every major relationship in my life, right down to being a dealbreaker when I chose my partner. It’s a tradition spanning three generations, with my parents, my kids, and me all still sitting by the same fire.
How I found my bliss
My earliest camping memory is helping my father put up a tent. My parents had taken my sister and me north of Toronto, to a place on Georgian Bay called Killbear Provincial Park — a friend had suggested it as a budget-friendly getaway, and none of us knew it would become the center of our lives.
For years, it wasn’t “my” thing at all. It was ours. My parents were relaxed and happy there in a way I didn’t see anywhere else. We laughed, we ate well, we spent whole days together — and at the same time, I had a freedom I didn’t have at home. Nobody was watching over me every second. It was the first place I got to experience the world in the deepest sense of the word.
It didn’t become personal until my late teens, when I started coming back with friends instead of family. That’s when everything shifted. Putting up a tent by myself, starting a fire without help, cooking my own meals — there’s a real pride in learning you can provide for yourself. What had been my parents’ gift to me slowly became something I owned outright.
What bliss is for me
A perfect day starts with an incredible sleep and sunshine, a fresh coffee, and a slow breakfast with nowhere to be. From there, it’s the beach — the whole day on white sand, swimming in that crisp Georgian Bay water, eating peanut butter and jam sandwiches with a cold Diet Coke. Back at the site, there’s a drink, dinner, some music. We catch the sunset, grab ice cream, and sit by the fire until we can’t keep our eyes open. Before bed, a walk to see stars in a sky darker than anywhere else I know. Then sleep, deep and easy, in the fresh air.
People ask if it’s the disconnecting, the slowing down, that makes it bliss. It’s not. It’s the place. It’s these specific granite rocks and this specific lake. It’s the crunching sound under your feet as you walk along the path. It’s knowing how to walk through the dark and find my way without thinking. I’ve been to other beaches, other sunsets — they don’t measure up.
The moment I arrive, before anything else, I notice my breath. It’s the deepest, most revitalizing breath I take all year. Everything outside the park — the stress, the noise, the outside world — just doesn’t belong inside that circle. I stop concerning myself with anything but what’s right in front of me.
If I had to sum it up for someone who’s never camped: peace. Camping brings all your senses to life. The food tastes better. The air is fresher. You see more. You sleep heavier.
How finding my bliss has changed my life
When I was dating, “Do you like camping?” was close to the first question I asked. I would not have ended up with someone who didn’t love it, or wasn’t willing to. It wasn’t negotiable.
All three of my kids were at Killbear within their first six months of life. Bringing them was never a question — I just found ways to make it work for them, and they loved it instantly: the open space, the freedom to run and explore.
Now it’s a three-generation trip. We all book sites close to each other and do everything together — one large, extended group instead of a small family unit. It’s a different kind of camping than when it was just my husband and me: more gear, more people, more food, more logistics. When my kids were younger, there were stretches that were genuinely hard, and I’d have to remind myself why I was there in the first place. It’s shaped life outside the campground too — I know I need trees and green space around me to function, something the city makes difficult to find, and it’s a huge part of how I manage stress and how I want my own kids to grow up.
What has been surprising about my bliss
What I chase here has changed. At ten, it was freedom — running wild, reuniting with families we only saw once a year, feeling secure inside a community of every age. As an adult, it became something closer to a refill: coming back to a place that holds decades of joy and letting the responsibilities of home fall away for a while.
Watching my parents age here has been one of the hardest and most beautiful parts. It’s more physically taxing on them now, and I’m aware their time to keep doing this is limited. At the same time, I’ve watched them build a bond with my kids that’s entirely its own — watching their grandchildren fall in love with the thing they’ve loved their whole lives. That my children care about this place the way I do is something I find almost impossible to explain to people who didn’t grow up with it. And now my kids are starting to come on their own, with partners and friends, and the whole cycle is beginning again.
They love exactly what I loved — the connection, the family time, the memories, the freedom. Nothing replaces breathing that air and swimming in that water. It’s still, simply, pure bliss.
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