For the first time in four years, I’m not living with a knot of anxiety in my soul. I’m a little lighter. There’s a tiny sliver of optimism that pops its head out every now and then.
Strangely, I’ve also been exhausted and really, really sad. It’s dawned on me that like a lot of us who have faced each day of the Trump administration braced for horror and new lows, I’ve been running on a mixture of rage and anxiety. Survival mode. The pandemic has just become another thing to “get through”. And now that one threat has been vanquished, I have space to grieve for the things that we’ve lost in this last year. The big things- babies being born, graduations, weddings, birthdays- and the smaller ones- Sunday brunch, afternoons at the art museum, spa days, and date nights- all gone for those of us who have been following orders to shelter at home. I used to think a lot about how absolutely normal and mundane my life was. The life of a middle-aged suburban housewife is only exciting when scripted by the execs at Bravo. I never would have guessed that the loss of “normal” would leave such a Grand Canyon-sized hole in not only how I perceive the world, but also in how I view myself. If my role as a wife and a mother is to comfort and care for my family and the ways in which I’ve done that are suddenly not accessible, then what is my purpose?
This long ramble is just to say I feel unmoored in this new normal. I think it’s part of grieving all that we have lost. And, if you’re feeling that way too, please know that you are not alone.
