I’ve just come back from another camping trip — this one full of perfect June days and relaxation, complete with gentle lakeside breezes and windows open to the sounds of nature at night.

This was a good trip for me, personally; I met my step goal every day but one, but I overdid other days in offset. I did that without trying, and when I first started setting step goals for myself earlier in the year, I simply could not understand how the recommendation of 10,000 steps a day could make any sense at all. But now that I have a step goal just shy of 6,000 steps a day, it makes a lot more sense. Those steps come a lot easier these days! And every week, I set that goal a little higher.

Inflatable Unicorns are REAL, y’all.

But that’s not really what I want to write about this week. No, it’s more about my camp neighbors. Especially one in particular.

I’ll call her Angie, although that’s not her name; I heard her name a few times over the few days she was next to us, but she’s a child, so I’ll give her a different one. She’s perhaps 10, maybe 12. She showed up with her (large) family in tow the third day of our five-day trip.

I noticed Angie because she appears to be mentally retarded; not profoundly so, but enough for her to live completely in the moment. I could tell at a distance by her childlike behavior, her mannerisms, the way she walks and talks. Once upon a time, in college, I worked with mentally retarded adults, so that experience came back in an unexpected way.

Sure, Angie got overtired and overstimulated a few times and had public meltdowns. There were things she wanted and in Angie’s no doubt usually carefully controlled world, they were out of reach and she couldn’t process not getting what she desired. But for the most part, Angie played with a big smile on her face. She squealed with glee. She jumped up and down and ran. She got right in the middle of games her older siblings and friends were playing, like badminton and Frisbee, and they always treated her with love. She rode her bike, complete with training wheels.

On the fourth day, a girl in the camp (perhaps late teens or early 20’s) was given her first bike; she appeared totally normal but had never had a bike, never knew how to ride one, and spent some time with various people trying to tell her just how easy it was to do. Perhaps to them, it was, but to her, it was new and a bit scary; she was unsure of herself but by the time we left, she was slowly getting the hang of balancing and peddling — things Angie can do easily, despite her limitations.

The thing is, I doubt Angie even knows or realizes she has limitations. She lives in the moment, whether it’s a temper tantrum or sheer joy. Someone bought an enormous pool/lake floatie that looked like a unicorn; I saw Angie, yesterday, joyfully carrying on an imaginary conversation with it.

Sure, you can argue that there’s a lot Angie doesn’t know about her plight. She’ll likely never hold a job outside one designed for disabled assistance. She may never marry or have children. She just might be an obligation to her parents well into her adulthood. She’ll never know much of the everyday experiences you or I know. She may never drive a car, play a musical instrument, edit a spreadsheet, operate a smartphone, take a Mexican vacation.

But for all that, Angie is one happy little girl. She doesn’t know (or care) that she’s not like anyone else. And in that, she’s quite fortunate. She’ll never be a fashion model, but neither will I. In fact, Angie’s existence makes the argument for existing in the moment and enjoying it for whatever it might be, including chatting with inflated unicorns.

Me, I worry too much. I worry about my weight and whether I’ll ever get to the goals I set for myself. I fret over whether brief deviations will hurt me overall. I flog myself for my shortcomings. I feel dumb in comparison to others; I read their words and am inspired by them, thinking myself as somehow lesser in comparison because of my (in)abilities. But am I? Why choose that path, when existence in this moment and loving it for all it is worth brings happiness?

I’m telling you — Angie has lessons to teach us. That simplicity to life is worth embracing.