I still remember the first time I drove Magali to Camp Massawippi. From the moment we left the city, she started to cry. The tears continued the whole way there.
She was 12 years old, and it would be her first time away from her family for so long. And yet, somewhere inside me, I already felt that small spark: the hope that here, Magali would be welcomed exactly as she is.
When we arrived, a welcoming committee was there to greet us warmly, and a counsellor walked us to the cabin where Magali would be sleeping. As we unpacked her bags, we met her team of counsellors and the other campers she’d be sharing her stay with. I took my time making sure she felt safe. And then, before I knew it, it was time to say goodbye – a moment I was secretly dreading. But there were no tears. Magali was already laughing with her new friends. After a few big hugs, I drove back home with a very full heart.
That was eighteen years ago. Magali has returned to Camp Massawippi every summer since, with the same joy, the same pride, and a confidence that grows a little more each year.
My name is Lucie, and Magali is my daughter. Her condition brings real coordination challenges. She needs support with eating, getting dressed, getting around, and with all her learning and leisure activities. Sports, arts programs, social outings — so many things are simply out of reach in everyday life.
Because of Magali’s disability, most activities that other kids her age take for granted are rarely accessible to her. Inclusion is too often just an afterthought, if it happens at all. But we keep getting back up. And when we find a place where Magali truly belongs, we hold onto it with everything we have.
Camp Massawippi is exactly that kind of place: rare, bright, where everything is possible for Magali — where, for once, she doesn’t have to apologize for being different. She’s simply herself.
What the Camp Massawippi team accomplishes still fills me with admiration. Every activity — waterskiing, crafts, dancing, and so much more — is adapted and reimagined so that every camper can truly take part. Not on the sidelines. Not as a modified version. Fully, and joyfully.
Every camper arrives with their own needs, their own challenges, and those words they’ve heard too many times: “you won’t be able to.” And here, at Camp Massawippi, one by one, they find a way. They try. They adapt. They persist. And they celebrate every victory.
Magali comes home each summer from Camp Massawippi with friendship bracelets from every girl in her cabin and artwork she made. But more than anything, she comes home with a thousand memories that still shine in her eyes. Proud for having dared, having tried, and having succeeded in her own way. She’s learned to waterski (I couldn’t believe it!), and she’s found a deep sense of independence that
surprises even her.
And we, as parents, learn something too: to trust, to let go a little, to accept that her path is different…and beautiful.
Things are very different now than that first summer 18 years ago. Back then, Magali insisted we drive her to camp ourselves. Now, that’s out of the question. The bus leaves from Montréal, full of campers and counsellors she’s known for years. For her, that’s when the fun starts: the hellos, the jokes, the music, the excitement of being back with her people.
As a parent, here’s what I find myself thinking about most: when Magali is at camp, she doesn’t need us. Not because we aren’t close (which we are). But because she has everything she needs to live, to learn, and to thrive. For a family like ours, that kind of independence is an extraordinary gift.
Raising a child with special needs means navigating appointments, worries, and endless adaptations — all held together by immense love that keeps you going. Giving Magali the chance to experience Camp Massawippi is a true gift. A time of happiness whose value is simply beyond measure.
– Lucie, proud mom of Magali