On March 20th of last year, I was in Cork, Ireland in a little one-room flat by the River Lee studying for a master’s degree. On March 21st, I was on a plane back to the U.S. It’s hard to believe that it’s been a year since COVID-19 changed the definition of normal–and yet somehow at the same time–it feels like it’s been much, much longer.  Some days feel interminable–each minute like being dragged behind a horse through a field of gravel. At other times (to steal a phrase I heard recently) it’s like you’re eating breakfast every 15 minutes. Those seven months in Ireland feel like a strange fever dream now.

And the loss, so much loss. Unimaginable loss for all of us. Some have handled it by hiding from truth–convincing themselves that nothing has changed and that this devastating loss is just the price to be paid to maintain normalcy and comfort. Others were convinced by self-serving politicians and then groupthink that what they were doing (social distancing, wearing masks) was living in fear and losing freedom rather than acting with selflessness and sacrificing a small percentage of their lives to save others. And slowly, it got longer and longer with more death and loss. You know the story. Here we are.

I’ve finally realized that comfort and safety are simply an illusion and life is so fragile and precious. I’ve felt the deep loss. Some days I just silently weep. Other days the only way to cope is to numb and medicate, escape into records, books, films, and video games just to get to the next day. (Thank the goddess for space operas and Red Dead Redemption.) And I’m one of the insanely lucky ones–my family is well, Nick (my husband), and I have stayed healthy and have been able to work from home. My little cat is cuddly and loving and completely oblivious to our human problems. But I can’t imagine what it’s been like for the unlucky, the unhealthy, the poor, the lonely, the marginalized.

When the pandemic hit, I was Zooming with friends almost every week and keeping up with people on social media. Somewhere in there I withdrew from almost everyone I love into a little hard shell that felt like emotional safety. I deleted my social media accounts (except Twitter for occasional news and goings on). I’m happy with that decision. It’s been vital for my mental health which is fragile at best. (We’re so much more easily influenced than we realize.) It means that I don’t know what every friend, family member, and passing acquaintance is doing and thinking at every hour of the day. And guess what? It turns out I can live happily without knowing. If I want to stay connected, the onus is on me to connect. It’s much healthier.

But in truth, it hasn’t been all bad and that’s sometimes difficult to talk about amidst the loss. I’ve experienced a fundamental change since March 2020. I’ve found joy and fulfillment in solitude and connected more deeply to nature than ever before. The things that are important to me have completely transformed. I hope I’m wiser, less materialistic, less vain, less ego driven. I know I need to do more, to be braver and to stand up and act. I suspect I’ll see the same change in the eyes and countenances of the people who’ve gone through this in a similar way when we can meet again.

I’m not really sure why I’m writing this other than I need a creative outlet to feel human and I’ve been struggling with other types of writing. I’m not even sure anyone will read it and I’m not sure that it matters but I’m going to try to keep writing as a little act of self-help and therapy.