25S Eagle Eye

EAGLE EYE Tennessee Technological University

Spring 2025

Funk’d Up Cave Music

Being immersed in an underground concert

The Note Maker

How kindness can be created

A Place To Be Me

A camp where anyone can be a hero

Free per single copy

C O N T Cover Design: Tyler Payne

Cover Photo: Lilly Davis

Contents Page Design: Callie Smith

Page Editor:

Ryan Carrigan

Copy Editor:

Eva Dingwall

Faculty Consultant: Dr. Brenda Wilson

Contributors:

Marcus Ainsworth Eva Dingwall Chelsea Easton Micah Goff Gianna Harper Bella Hawn Ian Hooper Olivia Lauper Robyn McCullah Elijah McGinnis Tyler Payne Callie Smith Teagan Warren

On the cover: Tech alumnae Abby Ramaker and Millie Hall created a mural near the west entrance to the RUC to celebrate 100 years of having a golden eagle as our mascot. Tech lore holds that the mascot was inspired by four golden eagles that soared over campus at the time.

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Carrigan Carries Funk’d Up Cave The Note Maker Music On Growing up, I didn’t have a Senior communicationjournalism major Ryan Carrigan has faced more challenges in 22 years than most students will face in a lifetime, but ...

I set off the metal detector.

A security officer’s wand is groping my clothing at half an inch away. My clothes feel tighter. I hear a noise.

Several noises. He passes over my front right pant ...

lot of friends, and truth be told, I was bullied at times.

So combining all that meant that middle school wasn’t a place of solace during my childhood. My attention span was short...

E N T S

P R I N G 10 12 14 25

Unseen

The first time I thought about it I was 12, and the last time I thought about it was yesterday. Each year as I creep closer to another birthday I remember how I attempted suicide. When I was 12, I was sitting on ...

Teachings of a Father

A Place To Be Me

He’s a quiet, kind man with an honest but blunt disposition, which makes him come off as rude sometimes to those who don’t know him. He hunts, but only ...

I love to travel and go on road trips, but my favorite place to “travel” to is my home away from home, just 15 minutes from my house.

Now you must be asking ...

Spring 2025 | 3

Carrigan Carries On Story and photo by Eva Dingwall | Layout by Bella Hawn

S

enior communication-journalism major Ryan Carrigan has faced more challenges in 22 years than most students will face in a lifetime, but with his positive attitude, it is hard to perceive he’s faced all he has.

After graduating high school in Hendersonville, Tennessee, Carrigan started his freshman year at Volunteer State Community College in Gallatin. Like most students starting college in 2020, his classes were all online his freshman year with a transition to a hybrid setting of both online and in-person classes as his sophomore year began.

“The third semester [at Vol State] was supposed to be in-person. Then the stroke happened, so I ended up doing everything online,” Carrigan said. “For the most part, I [took classes] from the rehabilitation hospital.

When I got out, I finished the year at home, then I changed to Tech.”

When Carrigan started college at Vol State, he was an exercise science major, hoping to treat injuries in the role of a sports trainer.

“Then I took anatomy and physiology, and I hated that class,” Carrigan said.

When he transferred to Tech, his major was “undecided,” and one of the first classes he took was Media and Social Institutions.

His instructor, adjunct faculty member Jamie Fancher, said, “He sat on the front row … showed up early and was always committed to his work. I could always tell with his work that he put a lot of thought and effort into it.”

Carrigan said, “I’d always enjoyed writing, and then I really got into it,” Taking Fancher’s class helped him decide to change his major to communication-journalism. However, his first semester at Tech wasn’t without difficulties.

“I had just had a stroke before

4 | Eagle Eye

I came here. That was challenging going into my first semester [at Tech], and my second semester, I had another stroke,” Carrigan said with a laugh.

“Nothing since then, thankfully. I had a brain tumor when I was four years old, so anything else is related to the brain tumor.”

The daily challenges Carrigan has experienced could cause anyone to want to quit or give up, but his positive attitude and work ethic have caused him to stand out among his peers.

“I know for me that my faith plays a big role in … the positive outlook,” Carrigan shared. “I’m a believer in Jesus Christ. For those who don’t have the relationship with Him yet, the ones who do can positively show [them] that hard things in life are somewhat easier. Not that things are not hard, because things are still going to be hard.”

Carrigan said he is close with his family. He has an older sister and younger brother.

“My mom and dad are pretty supportive,” he said.

Although Carrigan can travel home on the weekends, he said he prefers staying on campus: “I enjoy campus life and … living in proximity with my friends and stuff. Being a journalism major, all of the software we use is in the lab. I’m already [living on campus] so I just walk over [to the University Center].”

It wasn’t always easy for Carrigan to walk across campus to classes though. When he started at Tech, there were numerous construction projects on campus.

“It was challenging at times,” he said. “I think one [thing] that’s been very good … was the AEC (Accessible Education Center). They were really good about making whatever accommodations [I needed]. That has really made this process easier.”

Despite many challenges, Ryan Carrigan continues to keep his faith and persevere.

Birgit Hoffman, student support associate in the AEC who assisted Carrigan in his transition to Tech, said, “He just overcoems whatever is his obstacle.”

Carrigan’s can-do attitude has earned him positions on The Oracle newspaper, Eagle Eye magazine and, most recently, The Eagle yearbook.

Carrigan said his favorite coursework is design, but his skills include photography and news and feature writing. Also, to gain more hands-on experience, he is enrolled in an internship with Sports Information.

Carrigan said, “Not all of their job is ‘here watch this,’ or ‘okay, write this.’ There’s a lot of different aspects of things you don’t necessarily see unless you are in [sports information].”

He’s covered photography for volleyball, men’s and women’s basketball, soccer, football and cross-country.

He’s assisted with basketball and volleyball statistics and tracked participation for the football team.

“That’s probably one of the easier jobs and one of my favorites,” Carrigan said. “You sit up in the press box with binoculars and watch football …

I enjoy that.”

Carrigan said ultimatley he wants to be a sports writer.

Fancher said, “I could definitely tell throughout the class … how he showed up, the way he presented himself, the way he paid attention … he’s going to go far, he’s going to do things.”

Funk’d Up Cave Music

Story by Gavin Stackhouse Layout by Micah Goff

I

set off the metal detector. A security officer’s wand is groping my clothing at half an inch away. My clothes feel tighter. I hear a noise. Several noises. He passes over my front right pant pocket a few times–sharp beeps. He finds what I forgot to take out. A small metal tin. He walks me toward a separate table. I cannot see myself, but I eye my significant other. I imagine my face reflects her confused gaze as she clears the obstacle I can’t.

Jalynn’s birthday is coming up. She loves music and attends several concerts; I haven’t attended a single one before this. I know she would appreciate being the person I experience my first concert with.

I want it to stand out for more than that reason, though. I rush buying the tickets, mostly because the venue’s tickets are selling fast on the one weekend I have off closest to her birthday. The ad reads, “The Caverns–a music venue in a cave.” My eyes grow wide as I see it. “Well, surely she hasn’t done this!”

Photos by Matt Morrison @morrisonvisuals My dog jumps at the exclamation. Haphazardly, I decide to check out the bands after the checkout process. I buy the tickets after midnight, closer to 1 a.m. That sort of instance between restless and tired.

Cringing is my initial reaction to the bands’ names.

Who I see being advertised are Pigeons Playing Ping Pong, Andy Frasco and the U.N. and Dogs in a Pile.

Three bands I’ve never heard of; three bands she most definitely has never heard of. I look up reviews on the groups. They all seem to fit a funk genre—all sub-genres included. Spotify is my next destination. I listen with harsh judgments but still find songs even I can groove to. She would hate it.

I can’t keep all of the secrecy to myself. I need to tell her something. I show her the bands. We listen to some of the music together. I’m right to think what I did. She hates it. She doesn’t say it harshly like that, but I can tell. She tries telling me she would love to go, but I’m hearing the words incorrectly. I try refunding the tickets.

Spring 2025 | 5

Not out of spite, but I figure I can find something else to spend $200 on that she would enjoy more. Something we both can enjoy more. I can’t refund the tickets unless an emergency is relevant to the cause. I’m not putting that bad karma on us for later.

The day arrives. It’s warm. Muggy. Humid. Thick.

I keep the venue’s location a secret from Jalynn. I know I still have that up my sleeve for us to experience, regardless of our shared distaste for the music. I fill up the tank of my white Corolla and set the GPS. All she knows is the band names and that the trip takes an hour and a half to get there. The Caverns, nested in–well under–Pelham, Tennessee.

The trip itself isn’t too exciting outside of stopping in an S-curve of a town, with a length of no more than a dozen buildings. Name? Viola. Population? We see four people. In the South, expect to see some classic architecture. We pride ourselves on placing a cementblocked square Dollar General at a one-to-one ratio of stores-to-people. Being the biggest building in Viola and the only one open to the public that we see, the rest being covered in a layer of pollen or separated by corn fields, we seek a quick stop. We take five minutes to relieve ourselves and scour the aisles for drinks. We get back into our vehicle ready to depart once more. This place will look so creepy once we pass back through here later.

We keep seeing signs for Bigfoot-related events. I assure her more than once that I didn’t change the plans.

Winding down a single-lane gravel road, we get flagged down by traffic control for the venue.

“You’ve arrived at your–” I cut off the GPS before it finishes. Early enough to get a close parking spot too. The actual venue is still out of sight. I hope it’s not too long of a hike. We prep in the mirrors of our respective sides. I pull the tin of mustache wax out of my pocket. I made sure to grab it out of the bathroom at home before we initially left. I will have the best mustache here. I give myself a couple of curls and wait patiently for my passenger to give the signal. “Ready?”

We leave the vehicle, lock the car and head toward the crowd that is slowly starting to form.

In the distance, we both stare at a gravel slope and move alongside a small crowd moving downward. The crowd is full of people we wouldn’t typically associate ourselves with. Not due to hate, only due to lifestyle.

Dreads, tye-dye, retired individuals riding a ‘70s high, the works associated with funk. I spot a guy in a captain hat, shirtless; he smells of BO and weed. One of which I think could be me. I casually check to see if I put on deodorant– if there is a way to do that casually.

We approach two stations in this order: 1. Ticket checking.

2. Security.

I show the tickets to the attendant.

We move toward security.

There are signs labeled “NO SMOKING/ VAPING ON PREMISES” and “NO WEAPONS PERMITTED ON SITE.”

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I stare at the security guard’s sidearm. He tells me to move forward after I set my belongings on the side table.

He traces me. I set off the detecting wand. Again. And again.

He asks me to move over for further inspection. He wands my pocket. He tells me to pull out what I have in it. I see my phone, keys and wallet on the table. That’s all I ever carry.

I reach in and pull out my tin of mustache wax. Oops.

“Open it.”

I comply. Usually the wax is in its solid form. The heat of the day and the time out of the airconditioning causes it to melt. It’s now viscous. It looks like some sort of drug or dab residue—essentially cannabis concentrate.

“What is it?” the guard firmly questions. I flourish a curl on my mustache, “Oh! It’s for this!”

After five seconds of being stared at, my naive thoughts vanish.

“Nice mustache.”

“Thanks.”

A common area comes into view with shops, food and even the different bands’ buses. She finally spots it, “The Caverns,” posted on a sign and the 60-yard stretch from where we were to the mouth of the cave.

“Babe! A cave?! A concert in a cave?! This is going to be so exciting!”

I feel victorious.

There are still 40 minutes until the show kicks-off, but there aren’t many people here yet.

We decide to grab some food while the trucks have no business. The bill is $33 for two panini-pressed sandwiches and two waters. We wash the water down with a couple of beers shortly after.

We are ready to have fun. The day can’t disappoint now that we are actually here. I can’t be disappointed knowing Jalynn is excited.

We move toward the swallowing mouth of the cool air cave. Damp. There is water dripping from the ceiling of the cave—the roof? It feels authentic.

The atmosphere is incredible. We see the stage closing its preparations. We have prime standing room right behind the VIP area, first-come, first-served.

First up is Dogs in a Pile. As soon as the music starts, we are tranced. Funk. Beats. Riffs. Lights. An experience that speakers at home weren’t amplifying.

We groove and move, but not as much as the couple next to us or the group behind us. Both are lighting up and moving to beats I am not hearing. I see the security guard from earlier approach the front, acting as deterrence rather than trying to apprehend the culprits. It failed.

Intermission #1.

We fall farther back into the crowd. The smoke fills the cave, not only impeding our vision but also in smell.

The lead singer comes up for the next wave of beats.

He’s a brunette-afro dude named Andy Frasco, hence the band’s name. We learn that he is Jewish. Primarily because he keeps repeating that he feels like the Jewish batman, and that he’s making the crowd do the Hora.

Thank God we moved back.

His group has the most fan interaction, even tugging on some emotional heartstrings. Enjoying them the most, we have no choice but to buy some merch.

Intermission #2.

I see two kids running around.What the..? We sink back even farther. We start experiencing headaches. We aren’t quite ready to leave but agree to speak up whenever to make that call. Pigeons Playing Ping Pong appears to be a bunch of young dudes who focus on the visuals of their performance alongside their music.

They have lights bouncing off the cave walls in leopard prints and lasers at eye level forcing you into a game of chicken. We check out 30 minutes into the performance. Contempt, we have our fill.

We are funk’d. We safely make our way home shortly after passing a comfortable, nicely lit, abandoned Dollar General parking lot.

Photo by Keith Griner @keithgriner_creative Cave concerts are an immersive experience when the show’s lights and lasers bounce off the walls, forcing the audience to play chicken.

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The Note Maker Story by Elijah McGinnis Layout by Callie Smith Art by PEXELS

Growing up, I didn’t have a lot

of friends, and truth be told, I was bullied at times. So combining all that meant middle school wasn’t a place of solace during my childhood. My attention span was short. My patience was thin, and I usually couldn’t wait to get home.

Most subjects felt like a blur.

None of them were able to capture my curiosity, except for English. In that class, something always clicked.

It never failed.

As pens and pencils scratched paper, turning thoughts into reality,

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I tried to focus to conceive my own.

When I handed my finished product to the fierce leader of my favorite subject, she praised me for my hard work and vivid word choice and smiled brightly with approval. These moments were the ones I came to school for, the ones that got me through the day.

As the bell rang and students hurriedly rose from their seats to partake in the obnoxiously loud buffet they called lunchtime, I stayed behind.

I had other plans.

I always considered the power of

words to be extremely undervalued and overlooked, especially in the realm of bringing joy. Thus, during the lunchtime chaos, I started a tradition of writing messages on my classmates’ lockers to bring them some happiness once they returned.

I called myself the Note Maker.

It was something that started as a way to make my classmates smile and help them make it through the day, but eventually, it became something bigger. The sticky-note-filled halls capturing messages of “you’re awesome” and “keep up the good

work” seemed to instill happiness within my classmates and even extended to my teachers as well.

The tradition continued week after week.

Once again, I collected my colorful stack of notes to put on my classmates’ dull pale green lockers. But as I went to them, I noticed something more disturbing than the dated lockers this time.

Someone had begun to put up notes of their own.

As I went to look to see who signed the note, it read, The Note Maker.

Someone was copying me. Impersonating me.

Have you ever done something nice for someone, only to have someone else take credit for it?

It can be frustrating, right? You think of all the things you’re going to say or do and how you’re going to fix it.

But it never stops it from happening. People will always try to take credit for the good work you try to do. It’s odd how something that happened so long ago can still hurt, even when you’ve experienced it so many times now.

Do you ever feel that way too?

I sat back down in English class, scurrying around my mind, trying to figure out who would do such a thing.

“Why would someone take credit for something they didn’t even do?”

I wondered. One of my classmates tapped me on the shoulder, derailing

my train of thought.

“Did you hear that Jessica has been the one putting sticky notes all over the lockers?” she said.

I didn’t respond. I was consumed with anger.

“Who would take credit for something they didn’t do and start telling people they were the ones doing it in the first place?” I thought. It was a hard lesson that I had to come faceto-face with. It hurt my heart more than my mind at the time.

I began to think about what I should do next. Should I stop doing what I started and let someone else take over? Should I confront the person who was pretending to be me?

My thoughts raced as I traversed my mind of what action I should take next.

As I brooded about it, I began to realize that I had accomplished what I had set out to do in a way. I had inspired somebody to contribute to making others smile, even if they were doing it in their way. So instead of holding on to my anger, I asked if she would like to combine our goals.

“To make a difference, you have to find the good in the bad.”

To make a difference, you have to find the good in the bad. And together, we became the Note Makers, jointly leaving messages for our classmates to find. What began as one person became two, multiplying the compassion that could be spread throughout the school.

“What began as one person became two, multiplying the compassion.”

A long hallway after a long day would soon be filled with the color of encouragement from The Note Maker.

Spring 2025 | 9

Unseen T

Story by Bee Goodman Layout by Elijah McGinnis Photo by Adobe

he first time I thought about it I was 12, and the last time I thought about it was yesterday. Each year as I creep closer to another birthday, I remember how I attempted suicide.

When I was 12, I was sitting on my bed with my radio playing. I had taken a knife from the kitchen, the one my mom always warned me about being sharp. I was going to kill myself when the phone rang.

I was 14, and I had just lost my virginity to someone too much older than me after I said no. I had a gun in my mouth when I noticed it was snowing.

I was 16, and I went home from school that day, tak-

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ing home everything I kept in my locker and the band room, when I tripped and broke my wrist.

When I was 20, I drank a bottle of Everclear and took half a bottle of my mom’s sleeping pills. I’m one of the lucky ones that woke up.

I remember sitting at the kitchen table with great-grandmother Eva. She was feeding me Ritz crackers and asking what I was doing there. “You ain’t big ‘nough yet,” she said and shook her head.

I opened my mouth to agree, and then I awoke in a pale hospital room. Everything was fuzzy, and I had the worst headache. I’m not big enough yet.

Some statistics say that only two years after an attempt, a person is likely to attempt again. Knowing this, I avoided looking back. I refused to reexamine the times that led up to the attempt.

Now that five years have passed, I have learned that looking back gives me a new perspective as I continue to look forward. I also learned, by looking at my past, I can see where things needed to change and how I could have reacted differently.

With time passing and a lot of much-needed healing, I’ve found myself becoming an advocate for suicide prevention and awareness. I made the goal to take three million steps as part of a fundraiser with To Write Love on Her Arms (TWLOHA) for Suicide Awareness Month, celebrated every September.

As I fell deeper into the pit, I became a person I wasn’t proud of and blamed for being the cause of many failing narratives. The first few months after my attempt, I felt as though I was such a failure that I couldn’t even succeed in ending my own life.

I was angry at myself. I was angry at the people who stepped away in my time of need, and I was angry that I was still alive. I was angry at how alone I was after surviving an attempt. How could I fall so far after being at the bottom for so long?

I made plans again to end my life, but for some reason, I decided to go to a new therapist that same day.

I kept thinking I never should have grown up and I never should have been born. The thoughts rang through my head as I checked in at the front desk, and I sat down. I looked around the room and noticed that hanging on the wall right in front of me was the sign I needed to stay.

“The moment you doubt you can fly, you cease forever to be able to do it,” a quote from my favorite childhood movie, Peter Pan, hung on a black canvas a few feet in front of me. I sat there amazed. This had to be a sign from God, the universe or even Peter himself to stay.

Whatever it was,the message was clear. I was going to be okay. I continued my appointments with this therapist and found myself becoming the better version of myself. I reached that two-year anniversary and found myself in a position I had never been in before: I was happy.

I found pride in my journey; I made amends with those I had hurt; and I forgave myself. I revisited who I wanted to be when I was five years old. I wanted to be bigger than I was then. I wanted to be a better me.

“I’m one of the lucky ones who woke up.”

I’ve been getting closer to seeing that person in the mirror every day, and some days I think I do. I have noticed gray hair growing that wasn’t there when I was 20, a sight I never would have seen if I had succeeded in my attempt.

Since I have looked back at who I was then and what I was experiencing, I have been able to forgive that version of myself and realize that I was sick. I tell myself now that I would never shame myself for getting the flu, so shaming myself for having a mental illness doesn’t make any sense. I never thought I would be at a point in my life where I thought happiness was something I could achieve. I thought before it wasn’t possible for me. I still have bad days, just like everyone, and sometimes those bad days seem to flash this big red button that says, “the end of all your problems.”

But I know better now that I can’t because there are people who depend on me, and my hurt would only be given to them if I were gone.

I’ve found that sometimes taking one step at a time is the best thing a person can do. Fall 2024, I completed my goal of taking three hundred thousand steps in partnership with TWLOHA, and it would not have been possible without taking each step one at a time.

Practicing patience like this is a big part of my journey.

I see the progress I’ve made, and I know that it is okay to look back sometimes because it allows me to look forward with more perspective. Now I approach another year and remember to count the grays and the steps as they come because I almost lost the chance to see them.

Spring 2025 | 11

Teachings of a Father

Story and layout by Robyn McCullah Photos provided by Robert McCullah

12 | Eagle Eye

H

e’s a quiet, kind man with an honest but blunt disposition, which makes him come off as rude sometimes to those who don’t know him. He hunts but only in winter. Only if we’re in desperate need of food. This only occurs when it snows, and our power goes out for a week, our way out being blocked by fallen trees. (Used to happen once a year.) He can’t stand to kill an animal without reason.

He taught himself how to build things and do other work on our farm. He taught me those same skills.

From using a nail gun and building a fence to forging knives in the two-story building we built together; he always found a way to create the things we needed to live out in the sticks.

He taught me how to survive.

He is my hero.

He is my father.

My dad is my hero because of what he was able to teach me and still teaches me. I have good memories of him teaching me how to reload a staple gun and of showing me the “correct” way to hit a block of metal when blacksmithing. It’s one of his hobbies.

Another one of his hobbies that makes me admire him as my hero is his action figure/toy/comic book collection. The stuff is stashed everywhere. It taught me a lot about money and influenced my tastes and interests.

It also grew a love of art. We’d make Halloween props and costumes for local haunted houses together. He taught me how to use latex make-up for costumes professionally, among other crafts. He taught me how to paint galaxies, taking me on wild adventures through art, building and blacksmithing.

He’s my hero because he’s the one who taught me independence. If I need something fixed or something McCullah and her father love fantasy and are always on the lookout for the creativity it brings. A ren-fair is a great place for creativity.

can be built, I do it myself because that’s what my family does. Living on a farm and helping my dad with tasks was just about all I did as a kid. It was how we bonded aside from hiking.

There is a national park about five minutes from my parents’ house called Lilly Bridge. We’d take our dogs and hike the trails. It helped build my love of the outdoors, which led to many risky adventures. I remember how gentle dad was when reassuring me things would be okay when I took our four-wheeler down a steep “trail,” unknowingly with a cliff at the end of it. I look back on it now and laugh. It wasn’t so much a cliff as it was just a small bluff.

He would yell sometimes, but it was only because he cared and showed it in a tough-love type of way. Usually, this was when I’d done something dangerous and dumb, like the time I explored the woods without telling anyone and came back hours later. They were on the verge of calling a search party for me. I was about 12 years old.

The main thing that makes my dad my hero is he showed me it’s possible to create anything I want

to create, including things in the non-physical world like making my life what I want it to be. He inspires me to create my own path and my own life.

So, how can we create our own path in life? What tools do we need?

Where can we acquire them? All of these things, I think, can be answered by one phrase my dad says, which wraps it all together in a nice little bow.

“Thought. Word. Deed.”

Think about doing something.

Speak it into existence. Then act on your words.

“Thought.

Thought.

Word.

Deed.”

Deed.

That mantra has been a driving force in my life and accomplishments.

It’s what makes him my hero and how he inspires me to keep creating new paths in life, one thought at a time.

McCullah and her dad then and now.

They still go hiking and explore nature together, helping their bond stay strong.

Spring 2025 | 13

A Place To Be Me Story by Lilly Davis Layout by Teagan Warren Photos provided by Lilly Davis

I

love to travel and go on road trips, but my favorite place to “travel” to is my home-away-from-home, just 15 minutes from my house. Now you must be asking, “How can your home-away-from-home be so close to your house?” Well, my only answer for you is I just got lucky that way, haha.

I grew up in a small town in Cheatham County, Tennessee, called Ashland City, and hidden down in the valley, on the way to Pleasant View, is Camp Sycamore Hills, a place I have gone to every summer since I was in kindergarten. Sycamore Hills is a Girl Scout camp that has been around since 1958 and is located on 742 acres of beautiful land completely wrapped in a creek, from one bridge as you drive in, to the canoe shed at the back of camp. It is filled with hills and horses and trees forever.

This is the place where I longed to be day after day during the school year and where I met my best friend in the whole world. It’s where I have learned so many life lessons, made the most cherished memories and experienced the most magic. It is a place where I am known by the name of Songbird, where I have spent my days hiking to rainbows, sunsets and stars, just finding out who I am.

I have had so many experiences in this wonderful place that have captured my heart. When I am at camp, I feel like a different person than I am in the real world; because when I am at camp, I get to be my truest self. It is truly a place to be me.

Camp has that special magic touch to it that has always made me feel at home. When I’m there, I feel like I’ve been transported to a whole new world. I can be silly

14 | Eagle Eye

Lilly Davis discovered a place she could be her authentic self and make a difference in the lives of others at Sycamore Hills Girl Scout camp near Pleasant View, Tennessee. and goofy and not care about who is watching because that is what camp is for--showing girls they can be and act like their silliest and most authentic selves. I spend my days there taking care of children and having loads of spontaneous fun, hearing their laughter throughout every day, getting covered in tie-dye, breathing in the fresh smell of the pine trees while I hammock, being refreshed by the rushing creek water, eating gooey marshmallows roasted over a fire, belaying girls up the rock wall and so much more.

Growing up at camp, I had all of the camp experiences, from making bracelets to riding horses to going down the zipline, and I adored it all. I felt more comfortable there than anywhere else in the world and begged every year to go back again and again. I remember looking up to counselors and wanting to be them. They were my role models, and I knew one day it would be my turn to be able to be a counselor just like them and give girls the experiences I had as a kid. Camp made me realize I wanted to work with kids one day, in some form or fashion, and led me to pursue an undergraduate degree in human ecology with a concentration in child development and family relations, which was later renamed as human development and family science.

I started as a camper and eventually moved my way up to being a CiT, or what we call a counselor in training, and eventually became an intern. By the beginning of 2020, I was so ready to become a counselor and be a role model for children just like counselors had been for me growing up. Heck, I practically was raised there by some of those women who have been at camp since I was in kindergarten many years ago. But that changed, as everything else did, when Covid-19 was announced and camp was canceled for that summer. It was absolutely heartbreaking for me. The one thing I looked forward to every year of my life was not going to happen that summer.

Come the next summer, I got to start as staff, and I was completely overjoyed but also very nervous. Stepping into being a co-worker with people who basically raised me was kind of scary, but I was ready to make an impact on these kids’ lives that summer and have a blast with them. I spent that summer making the most of every challenge given to me and came back the next two summers as a unit leader and took on a larger leadership role, which I adored immensely.

That year, I was awarded the Shero Award. Absolutely a full-circle moment for me. Each week of camp one to three counselors are awarded it. A Shero is someone who stands up for women and girls everywhere and is a role model to all, someone people can trust and look up to. That summer, I was one of those women, and I cried

walking up on that stage. I never believed I would get it after dreaming of it my entire life, but I finally did, and my heart was very full that night. I was honored girls at camp wrote nominations for me and that the administration staff agreed I deserved that award. It showed how much I had grown as a leader and person over the past few years.

I was so grateful, and I was speechless. My dream of making a difference in girls’ lives had come true. I already knew I had made a difference in their lives, but this award empowered me and proved I was doing what I was called to do, and that was to be a leader these girls could look up to while at camp, make them feel like they belong there and allow them to be their fullest, craziest self.

This past summer, I was hired to be one of the assistant camp directors. It was a challenge but so fulfilling to get to be administrative staff and take a higher role at camp, and I’m so thankful each day I get to experience camp and the magic it produces. I think my most eye-opening experience during that summer was that I got to be the one to put on the beaded pearl necklaces at my favorite part of camp. We call it the Dream Ceremony.

Now I know it might sound a bit cult-like, but during this ceremony, we talk about how Juliette Gorden Low founded Girl Scouts by selling her only pearl necklace. The girls proceed to break off into their groups, share their dreams and add a bead to a string. Then, they two-by-two walk through an archway while getting a pearl necklace put over their head and their counselor gets a candle lit.

During this whole time, we sing “Dreams,” and eventually, we make a circle where we sing songs and end our week of camp. It is such a wonderful experience and makes me cry often because it is so beautiful.

Camp Sycamore Hills will always hold a special place in my heart. All of my dreams bloomed like daisies in the sun there, and camp made me believe in magic. I hope to one day be able to share it with my future girls.

I want them to have a place to be themselves, have that home-away-from-home and have a safe space to grow and learn—just as I did.

“My dream of making a difference in girls’ lives had come true.”

Spring 2025 | 15

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