When Life Stopped Three Years Ago
Hi friends,
After a short hiatus from this newsletter, I’m back! I feel equal parts rejuvenated and inspired, which feels like a freaking treat after my brain went on vacation and induced a writing slog in which any articulation of thoughts and feelings felt downright impossible. It was a great reminder for me that sometimes we have to let things be for a minute, and in some cases, let them go.
If you’re slogging away at something and you’re not getting anywhere, give yourself a break and come back to it when you’re in a better headspace.
Our body always tells us, we just need to listen. It’ll all work out.
While I know we have a long way to go until we’re firmly in the grasp of longer and warmer days, I love watching this side of Earth make its entry into another season. We had our first post-7pm sunset in Seattle on Sunday (thanks, Daylight Savings Time!), the daffodils and cherry blossoms are blooming, and the air has that damp, crisp fragrant smell that signals the end of dormancy. These in-between stages are always fun to watch, and a reminder that transitions are often the most beautiful. This year, Spring Equinox is Monday, March 20th, so in just five days, we can officially say we’re done with winter—even if the weather takes a while to reflect that. I know this is a cause of celebration for many who find the winter months grueling and lonely.
Witnessing these seasonal transitions feels nothing short of miraculous—especially since March 11 marked three years since Covid-19 was declared a pandemic, a marker that has caused me to reflect on the many moments in which we weren’t sure if we, our families, our friends, our neighbors, and our coworkers would survive it.
I know that may sound dramatic now, but at the time, I can remember the raw fear and uncertainty that consumed every conversation we had and every action we took.
I remember when we were told to go home and stay home (unless, of, course, you were an essential worker and had to compromise your and your family’s safety to keep people alive and society running. We have not thanked or compensated these people and their efforts nearly enough, that’s for damn sure).
I remember hearing “oh it’s just for a few weeks” which turned into “a few months” which turned into “by X holiday” and eventually to “I can’t believe it’s been a year!” And now here we are, and three years have passed since those early days.
Wild, isn’t it?
In the early aughts of the pandemic, I can remember what it felt like to live across the country from family and wonder when, or if, I’d be able to hug my parents again. I remember making a homemade mask out of an old dress, receiving a box of toilet paper from my mom in the mail because I couldn’t find any in D.C., and figuring out how to work from home with roommates who all had varying safety barometers.
I remember waiting in hours-long lines for grocery stores that only allowed ten people to shop at a time, and I remember going to four different stores to find hand sanitizer because—for a time—that and homemade masks were our only defense against this insidious virus.
I remember walking past boarded up businesses I wasn’t sure I’d ever step foot in again; I remember walking into the street to avoid passing people on the sidewalk in case they were sick because we just weren’t sure how it spread at first; and I remember finding ways to connect with my loved ones during intense periods of isolation and having to be satisfied with sterile-feeling Zoom catch-ups.
I remember learning how to work from home, while thinking work felt so insignificant in comparison to everything happening outside my computer screen. I remember the brief moments before Covid became politicized, when it seemed like everyone was rarely united in hunkering down until we figured out what the hell was going on. Then I remember how quickly that unity vanished (if it was really ever there at all) and how people started “doing their own research” to determine what was safe and what wasn’t and flippantly compromising the health of others because ~god forbid~ they think of anyone but themselves.
I remember reading gut-wrenching reports about people who died from Covid and about their family members who couldn’t be in the hospital with them while they took their last breath, or who couldn’t give them a proper funeral because it was too unsafe to gather in large numbers.
I remember hearing about people having babies in masks, alone in their room except for their nurse or doctor, and not being able to introduce their baby to family or friends for months and even years.
I remember learning how millions more people couldn’t afford to buy their next meal because their job had vanished, and no one was hiring, and unemployment skyrocketed to rates not seen since the Great Depression.
I remember entire school systems shutting down and kids crying because they didn’t understand why they couldn’t go anywhere, and parents trying to juggle work and caregiving and boundaries and their relationships all while having no clue how to keep it all together.
I remember going back to the office in September 2021—for the first time since March 2020—to gather my things because my partner Aaron and I were moving to Seattle. I remember walking to my desk and feeling like I just walked into a time capsule: there were scribbled sticky notes with to-do lists from my last day in the office—right next to my daily calendar set to the date March 12, 2020; there was a pair of flats haphazardly thrown under my desk, and some unopened snacks that one of my colleagues brought to share the day before we went home for good. No one had had the chance to eat them yet. It was eerie.
I remember taking an hours-long walk through D.C., tearfully saying goodbye to all my favorite spots (the ones that hadn’t gone out of business)—except I couldn’t experience or go inside most of them because the pandemic was still raging and the city was locked down (rightfully). I remember leaving D.C. and feeling like I never got a chance to say a real goodbye, and I grieved—and still grieve—the lack of closure that comes when you move away from a city and a life you love. I also remember feeling guilty, and maybe even silly, for that grief when so many people around me had lost so much more and would continue to do so.
Still. It’s been 2.5 years, and I haven’t yet gone back. Soon.
When we were still in the depths of the pandemic, I remember moving to Seattle (a very odd time to move to a city you’ve never stepped foot in before) and slowly, slowly building the foundation that would cause me to fall so deeply in love with the city I still call home.
I remember crying tears of joy when I got my first vaccine because it felt like a sliver of hope after a very long stretch of hope’s absence. But I also remember getting Covid a year after that and wondering if I, like several people I knew, would get debilitating long-Covid symptoms or related conditions.
There are millions of other memories like these, but there are also large gaps in which I remember very little about everything that happened. I wish I had journaled or captured my thoughts in some way throughout the pandemic, because time has a way of erasing those micro moments and the stark realizations and lessons that come with them.
But if there’s one thing I will never forget, it’s that the pandemic forced me to understand that I can’t take life—another day, another season, a conversation with a dear friend or family member, the sun on my face—for granted ever again.
It sounds so cliché, yes, but so many people lost loved ones they wish they could talk to or hug again, and so many had to build a new life because their old one was unrecognizable—so I’m determined not to forget how precious and brief this one life is, and how lucky I was, compared to so many, not to lose my family and friends, my job, or my home to this virus.
As our lives have returned to some semblance of normalcy (not that anything is normal), I’ve found myself forgetting aspects of the pandemic’s severity and intensity. Some of that is welcome: parts of the pandemic were so tough and not something that I want any of us to relive.
But I also don’t want to forget the details because I don’t want to pretend that the pandemic didn’t change me, my family, my friends, the way we work, the way we have fun, the way we view the world, and the way we see and show up for each other. It irreparably did. Remembering is one of our biggest powers. And hopefully it helps us heal and then go and build something better than what we had in the past.
Thanks for going on this trip down memory lane with me.
Until next week,
Elizabeth
This was a moving and beautifully written trip down memory lane. Thank you.