A Moment of Crisis at RYLA

The week-long leadership training organized by the Rotary Youth Leadership Academy (RYLA) was supposed to be one of the most exciting experiences of my life. I was 19 years old, eager to learn, and thrilled to be surrounded by like-minded young leaders from all over the country. We were 18 girls sharing a large hall, each with our own stories and dreams. Despite the packed schedule, we quickly bonded, our late-night talks often veering from leadership strategies to our personal hopes and fears.

The days were intense, filled with workshops, group activities, and endless discussions about leadership. By the time we returned to our hall each evening, we were exhausted but energized by the day's lessons. It was on one of those nights, after a particularly challenging session, that everything changed.

We had just settled into our beds, the room buzzing with low chatter as we recapped the day's events. I was lying on my bunk, halfway through a conversation with the girl next to me when I noticed something strange. One of the girls, Kamsi, who had been fairly quiet throughout the day, seemed to be struggling. She was sitting upright on her bed, clutching her chest, her breathing rapid and shallow.

At first, I thought she was just tired or maybe stressed out. The program was demanding, after all. But as I watched her, I realized something was very wrong. Kamsi's breaths were becoming more labored, and her eyes were wide with fear. The chatter in the room slowly died down as more of the girls noticed her distress. My heart began to race, a cold knot of fear forming in my stomach.

I had never seen an asthmatic attack before, but I knew instinctively that this was what was happening. My mind flashed to the stories I had heard about asthma—how quickly it could escalate, how dangerous it could be if not treated immediately. The realization hit me like a wave, and for a moment, I was frozen in place, unsure of what to do.

"Kamsi, where's your inhaler?" one of the girls asked urgently, her voice cutting through the rising panic in the room.

Kamsi pointed weakly toward her bag at the foot of her bed, but she was struggling too much to speak. My body moved before my mind could catch up, and I found myself scrambling to her bag, desperately searching for the inhaler. My hands trembled as I rifled through her belongings, pulling out clothes, notebooks, anything that got in my way. It felt like time was moving in slow motion, the seconds stretching out into an eternity as I searched.

Finally, my fingers closed around the small, life-saving device. I grabbed it and rushed back to Kamsi, who was now gasping for air, her face pale and her lips tinged with blue. The room was deathly silent, all eyes on her as I handed her the inhaler. She took it with shaking hands, bringing it to her mouth with visible effort. We all watched, holding our breaths, as she managed to take a few puffs.

The effect was not immediate, and for a terrifying moment, I feared it hadn't worked. But then, slowly, her breathing began to even out. The color started returning to her face, and the wild fear in her eyes gradually faded. Relief washed over me like a tidal wave, and I realized I had been holding my breath the entire time.

As Kamsi's breathing stabilized, the tension in the room eased. Some of the girls sat down on their beds, their expressions a mix of shock and relief. I felt a strange combination of exhaustion and alertness, my body still buzzing with adrenaline even as my mind began to process what had just happened.

"Thank you," Kamsi whispered hoarsely, her voice barely audible but filled with gratitude. I nodded, still too shaken to respond verbally. The reality of how close we had come to a much worse situation was starting to sink in, and it left me feeling emotionally drained.

That night, we gathered around Kamsi's bed, each of us trying to offer comfort in our own way. We didn't talk much; the experience had left us all a little shell-shocked. But in the silence, there was a shared understanding—a recognition of how vulnerable we all were, and how important it was to look out for each other.

In the days that followed, we made sure to keep a close eye on Kamsi. We learned where her inhaler was kept, and we even talked through what to do in case of another attack. It was a sobering experience, one that reminded us that leadership isn't just about taking charge in a meeting or giving a speech—it's about being there for each other, especially in moments of crisis.

The rest of the week passed without incident, but the memory of that night stayed with me. I couldn't shake the image of Kamsi struggling to breathe, or the helplessness I had felt in those first few moments. It was a lesson in the unpredictability of life and the importance of being prepared, not just for ourselves but for those around us.

Looking back, I realize that experience brought us all closer together. It wasn't the leadership workshops or the group activities that made us a team—it was that moment of crisis, when we had to rely on each other in a way we hadn't anticipated. It taught me that true leadership is rooted in empathy, in the willingness to step up and help, even when you're scared and uncertain.

That night, we weren't just roommates at a leadership camp. We were a team, bound by a shared experience that taught us more about ourselves and each other than any workshop ever could. And in that, we found the true meaning of leadership.