For the next decade, if not quarter century, how we dealt with the pandemic may define us more than any pseudo-science personality. You’re an INFP, but you flew to Cancun in 2020? You’re an Enneatype 1 that tore out your stairwell in the early days and then started a Pinterest business? You’re a Gryffndor, but you got a therapist?

We all have suffered a collective trauma. It’s not even an American trauma. It’s the world’s ordeal. (Admittedly, New Zealand seems to be doing pretty well; she must be on SSRIs.)

It’s not necessarily the virus that has terrorized us. Yes, it’s laid the foundation, but for some it’s being cooped up with loved ones; for others, it’s the isolation; and for many others, it’s all the tiny and large tears in the communal backdrop – racial injustice, two Americas seemingly lived in different election realities, financial strain, different understandings of the social contract.

We all have responded differently. Some applied to grad school. Others adopted pets. Some conceived children. Many moved in with parents or to the countryside or across the country. Some suffered breakups. Others went outdoors – camping, backpacking, biking.

I have always been struck by the tenacity of the human spirit and also the varied reactions people have to stress. We humans are fighters, but we are also uniquely vulnerable. We have memories, we have nightmares, we have thoughts and fantasies – these are wonderful things that lend themselves to creativity and ingenuity, but they also terrorize us, especially when we are left to only ourselves. That, possibly, has been the sentence of 2020 – the world was asked to quarantine, which in turn meant we all had to sit down and be with ourselves. Some of us did this, some of us did this for a little (and then flew to Cancun or Costa Rica), and some of us have continued to sit with ourselves in myriad ways.

Many afternoons, between work emails and Zoom calls, I have to rest on my bed and stare at the ceiling for at least 15 minutes. I have even found myself supine on a Saturday evening. After all, there’s not much going on in a pandemic if you’re actually social distancing (yes, this is a pointed remark toward indoor diners and rebel-goers). Recently, a friend invited me to a fire pit. For two hours, I promised to come, to pull myself from my bed and the dark and walk the mile to her backyard. Inevitably, I succumbed and said I couldn’t make it. I didn’t know what was wrong with me. I couldn’t even say Netflix pulled me in or dinner took me too long to make. I just couldn’t get out of bed.

Increasingly, I’ve read others’ similar experiences. I scroll through tweets, posts, and confessions of people’s depression, anxiety, listlessness and recklessness.

Before the pandemic, I was diagnosed with mild sleep apnea. I took the pandemic as opportunity to prolong my slumbers and find restfulness without medical intervention. I have not found that. For a short while, I blamed this – it’s my sleep apnea; that’s why I can’t get up; I just don’t get enough oxygen.

Nah, let’s be honest. I am depressed like the rest of the world. Perhaps we are all depressed. Normalization does not make the problem any smaller or easier. I write these words flippantly because I certainly don’t feel depressed at all moments nor do I even want to utter such an idea to the therapist I acquired in early 2021 (and am now figuring out how to break up with, which will surely be featured in a future blogpost). It’s hard to blame a chemical imbalance when we’re surrounded by so much. Just so much. It’s not even all trauma. I also hesitate to write this and list my own upsets as if to compete for “Who had the worst pandemic?” I am a notorious angle-finder. Some call this optimism, but the cynic in me calls it a spin. Admit not defeat, but reframe success. An ugly rain puddle? What about the reflection in it? An isolating pandemic that half the population downplays? What about a cross country road trip?

Arguably, I’ve had the best pandemic. I adopted a cat. I rehomed a cat. I decided to move across the country. My move got canceled. I bought a bike. I bought a tent and a water filter. I attended WebEx happy hours and went on Zoom dates where each one ended with resounding silence and a buzzed “Well, what do I do now?” I had a short-lived crush and many more times of disappointment and boredom. I hauled my parents’ 2012 Honda Accord 15,000 miles around the country to see 27 states in three months. I failed to find myself in the starry dessert or in a psychic’s palm.

I still am suffering like everyone else. We should be gentle with ourselves, but we also should admit our defeats and need for serotonin and dopamine.

It is easy to blame the pandemic, quarantine, and the world for our struggles. Sara and I even cited them as reasons that we went silent on this blog for a few months. But it’s like “being busy.” Everyone is busy. What are you busy doing? Similarly, everyone is dealing with the pandemic. And it feels insincere to return to blogging humorous anecdotes and brunch reviews without acknowledging the hell hole of the last 12 months, even if we can find triumphs in the dark.

So what kind of pandemic person will I say I was when asked in five years? Did I bake sourdough? Did I retile a kitchen? Did I find love on an app or through a screen? Or did I survive like everyone else?

The last question’s all that matters.