Camp Rover started as a question. Not a business plan. Not an offer. Just a question I kept turning over: why aren't there more spaces for creatives in this city that aren't transactional?
It became a flagship conference. A hundred and fifty-plus people, beanbags and ball pits and dried flowers, conversations nobody wanted to leave. Then Autistic burnout came next. I tried to plan the next one anyway, and at some point I caught myself forcing it.
So I let it sit still. This episode is about why. What it costs to pause something with your name on it, and what "exist properly" actually means when the easier answer would be to just keep producing.
Listen: Substack · Spotify · Apple Podcasts · YouTube
In this episode
How Camp Rover started as a question, not a business plan
Why I always wanted it big, a flagship from day one
What the first conference actually felt like, and why people didn't want to leave
Why I tried to plan the next one anyway, and the moment I caught myself forcing it
The difference between scaling and rushing to scale
What "exist properly" means for Camp Rover now: non-profit, board, governance, its own legs
Why the rebuild is the work
Building a creative community that isn't transactional
Camp Rover is the creative gathering place, a community, I built here in Winnipeg. A space for entrepreneurs in creative industries, or people in the arts who are considering monetizing a creative skill. Built around depth instead of networking. Connection instead of extraction.
I'd been to enough networking events to know what was out there. Name tags. Elevator pitches. Someone selling you something before you'd finished your drink. And I kept thinking: what if a gathering for creative people actually felt like the thing we all say we want? Slower. Warmer. Designed around connection, not extraction.
I knew from the start that I wanted to start with a flagship. Not a small dinner. Not a meet-up that grew over time. A conference. I always wanted it to go big. And I'm still proud that that was the route I took.
What made the first conference work
A hundred and fifty-plus people. Speakers. Sponsors. A production schedule that had every minute, every element, every sound, every light, every touch planned.
And it worked. Not in the way a business works. In the way a room works. It ended around five, and people didn't want to leave. Tucked into beanbags. At the art station, playing with paint. In the ball pit, having a giggle and getting content. Lingering in conversations they didn't want to end. That almost never happens at events.
More than a few people came up to me and said some version of, "I didn't know I needed this until I was in it." It told me something I already suspected. There were more of us. Creatives who wanted depth. Who were tired of performing at their own networking events. Who wanted the business side and the human side in the same room at the same time.
When to pause a business project instead of forcing it
I had every plan to keep building. I tried to plan the next one anyway. Of course I did. That's the operator move. You recover by getting back to the build. I had dates in the calendar. I had the venue half-locked. I was talking to speakers.
And at some point I realized I was forcing it. Not the idea. The timing. The scale. The shape of what it had become. I was trying to bring back the hundred-and-fifty-plus-person version, because that's what existed last. That's what people remembered.
And I couldn't do it. Not couldn't as in I wasn't capable. Couldn't as in the version of me that built that one wasn't the version of me standing here.
So I let it sit still. That's the sentence that's been hardest to say out loud. Because letting something sit still, when people are asking for it, when there's demand, when you know you could do it, feels like abandoning a community you spent the last year bringing together. It feels like the opposite of what you're supposed to do as a founder.
I've had to separate two things in my head. There's scaling. And there's rushing to scale. They are not the same.
Giving a community its own legs
What I actually want for Camp Rover now is for it to exist properly. Not exist loudly. Not exist on a stage with two hundred people and a sponsor deck. Exist properly.
That means registering it as a non-profit. Actually doing the paperwork, building a board, setting up governance, so that when it does come back as a gathering, it's not sitting on top of my personal business. It has its own legs. There's a lot of work to be done there, and until it really has legs, that step won't be taken. Right now we're in learning. Wisdom-building. Respecting and honouring what already exists in the Winnipeg non-profit world.
Because the old version of Camp Rover was Amanda-dependent. If I was tired, Camp Rover was tired. If I was building something else, Camp Rover was quiet. That's not a community. That's a one-woman show with a nice name on it. A board changes that. Governance changes that. A group of people who care about the mission as much as I do changes that.
It also means letting the community stay warm through smaller moments, content, workshops, home-based events and conversations, without forcing a big event to prove it's alive. Years one and two of this pivot are for structure underneath it. Years three to five, Camp Rover comes back. Clean. Intentional. Grassroots. Designed from the architect, not the operator who thought scaling was the only direction.
Letting go of a title tied to your identity
When something is tied to your identity as closely as Camp Rover was tied to mine, letting it rest feels like letting yourself rest publicly. Every time someone asks, "is Camp Rover happening this year," a small part of you wants to say yes just to keep the momentum in the room. Even if yes isn't the right answer.
I've had to practise the no. Not this year. It's being rebuilt. I've had to practise not apologizing for the rebuild. Because the rebuild is the work.
There are rooms where Camp Rover used to be the first thing people asked about, and now I lead with something else: the consulting, the education, the architecture work. That's a small ego bruise and a bigger opportunity. It took me a beat to realize it was a gift, not a loss.
The thing you built is not gone because you're not running it this year. A brand, a community, a gathering, they don't die from a pause. They die from being forced into shapes they've outgrown. Letting it sit still isn't abandonment. It's stewardship.
Key line
If I rushed it back, I'd be designing around scale. If I let it sit, I can design around purpose. Those are two very different projects.
Reflection question
If you have a project, an offer, a thing with your name on it that is quietly asking for a pause, what would it look like to let it rest without letting it go? Not kill it. Not relaunch it. Rest it. What infrastructure could you build underneath it, during the pause, so that when it comes back, it comes back with its own legs?
FAQ
What is Camp Rover?
Camp Rover is a creative gathering place and community in Winnipeg for entrepreneurs in creative industries and people in the arts considering monetizing a creative skill. It's built around depth instead of networking, and connection instead of extraction.
Is Camp Rover happening this year?
Not as a big-scale conference. Years one and two of the pivot are for building the structure underneath it: a non-profit, a board and governance. The plan is for Camp Rover to come back in years three to five, maybe smaller or differently shaped. Smaller moments and events can still happen in between.
How do you pause a project without killing it?
Rest it instead of relaunching it or ending it. Keep the community warm through smaller moments, and use the pause to build infrastructure underneath it, so it comes back with its own legs instead of depending on one person.
What's the difference between scaling and rushing to scale?
Rushing to scale means forcing the biggest version back because that's what existed last. Scaling well means designing around purpose first. If you rush it back, you're designing around scale.
This post is based on Season 1, Episode 9 of Work, By Design, a podcast by Amanda Douglas & Co. about redesigning how you work.
Want help with your own version of this? Start a conversation
Read next: How to Design a 4-Hour Workday as a Business Owner
