Our collective new normal

In mid-March, when it became apparent that the COVID-19 pandemic was making its way into South Carolina, it felt like being at the beach when I’ve waded out beyond the breaking waves. Buoyant and weightless, but because I’m also a bit afraid of the ocean, on watch.

Then, I notice the swell. In that first second, I think I’ll be fine, that I’ll float right over the top. The next second, I realize it’s too late. I dive into the wave, just as it crashes on top of me.

For my family, that moment when we shifted from it’s probably coming to it’s definitely here looked like a series of disappointing cancellations. It looked like my neighbors in healthcare coming to terms with the impact. It looked like my children coming home from school on Friday with all of their books; their teachers already preparing for the inevitable closing.

It looked like a text from my husband, telling me that we needed to go over our budget and check every item. He too, saw what was coming. In a matter of a days, his video production company with 20 camera crews across the country went from a full schedule of shoots—to nothing. 

That was the first weekend.

Our story is just one story in sea of stories.

Something interesting happens to me in a crisis. I become clear-headed and calm, or perhaps I’m in such a state of shock that it deactivates the part of me that’s prone to freak out. I told Shawn that we needed to do the best we could to protect our family’s emotional well-being. We needed to protect our hearts, just as fiercely as we would fight to survive the unexpected economic downturn. Just as diligently as we would honor our social responsibility to help try to slow the spread of this virus.

Could any of us have predicted this?

We had a talk with the kids. We told them things were about to change in ways we never imagined. We told them that no matter what happened, we’d be okay because we have each other. We said those things with confidence, even though we’d quickly given up the delusion that we can predict the future. 

Our conversation was more about resilience and anchoring our hearts and minds in those things that feel safe, even in a time when no one feels safe. 

I noted how Shawn’s mom had lived through the Great Depression and how it had shaped her. I recalled the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001. I told them that no one who lives a long life will escape the experience of a life altering, history-making event. 

We told them that we’ll make it to the other side. And when we do, we’ll all be changed. 

There’s a part of me that wonders if every consequence of this pandemic is a bad thing. I’ve seen so much connection, so much creativity, so much kindness. So much drilling down to what’s important, like our health and our people. 

I’ve seen us give each other grace. We as a family and as a country are collectively grieving, and no one navigates the stages of grief in the same order or at the same time.

I’ve cried a few times. But not as much as I typically do. I’ve managed my anxiety by going to bed late and waking up early. That way, I figured, I’ll sleep all the way through, instead of waking up in the middle of the night, which is torture. 

I’ve exercised. I’ve decluttered. I’ve shopped for groceries like I’m preparing for the apocalypse, all while trying not to touch anything, and especially not my face. I felt a strange sense of glee when I realized that we were, coincidentally, already stocked up on toilet paper. 

We colored the sidewalks with rainbows. Even in my despair, I still have some hope. 

I still feel relatively calm and even. I can’t predict when the grief will hit me like a wave. There’s no playbook or rulebook for living in and through a crisis.

My kids are still doing surprisingly well, and ironically, I’ve never been so grateful for technology to keep them connected with their teachers and their friends.

I am grateful that they are now 14, 10, and 8, because what’s happening is easier to explain than it would’ve been a few years ago. Our home would be much more chaotic if Cate was still climbing on the countertops and Blake was still leaving a raccoon trail of snacks in the kitchen. (Well, he still kind of does that, but his overall tidiness has greatly improved.)

And yet, I know that my children haven’t, and I still haven’t, felt the full weight of it.

We’re in the beginning of this crisis and the ending is not a place or a time that we can predict. And, the fact that we’re all in this together—that this is happening to every single one of us—is a terrible and miraculous thing all at once. 🖤