Pandemic Living

Written By: Paige Thompson, The Letter Project Executive Director

Remember when this pandemic started? It was hard to wrap my head around. It was a seemingly normal day one day then a drastically different day the next. I often wonder why I didn't anticipate what was happening, why I didn't expect life to change here in the United States the way it had already changed across the world.

I panicked initially. With family members in the high risk category and my husband on the front lines, I immediately started thinking about worst case scenarios and working on life insurance. I was terrified about having 3 kids under 4 at home with me with none of our usual activities, outings, and social connections. Then I watched in shock as everything shut down.

When my husband got home, I was taking our dog for long walks as my "break." Walking around our little town in South Dakota, I prayed. It was hard to think about the people who could not afford their meals that night, the people whose home lives were difficult or downright awful, the isolation those struggling with mental health and addiction would be feeling - I just kept thinking about all the pain and struggle in the world. Then a car pulled over, it was an older couple and they were both smiling. They talked through the car window and asked about my dog, our Goldendoodle. They were friendly from a far, wished me well, and waved me on.

It was starting to get dark and as I turned, I saw the sunset on the park my kids used to play at daily, sometimes twice a day. The yellow slides completely abandoned. I could see the baby swings that my girls had so sadly outgrown. The signs saying the park was closed bleakly stared at me. I cried as I walked. I realized how good it felt to talk to another human being. Part of me cried because I don't know if I had ever really thought about how much I needed other human beings, even ones I didn't realize impacted me, like strangers talking about dogs. 

As the days turned to weeks and then months, I developed routines with the kids. We were constantly visiting Little Free Libraries, frequenting local small businesses for curbside pickup, dropping off surprise coffees for friends on their doorsteps. Our outtings became much different - we rolled down the local sledding hill, we pretended we were Rocky on the big stairs by a church in town, we started hiking and biking. Somewhere along the way, I realized we had our health. And, I was shocked to recognize that our health was all I could wish for right now. None of the other things I had worried about like routines, activities, etc. mattered. We still had each other.

I had been so worried about how I would get through with my kids and a new baby. Constantly asking myself how I would work, how I would stay sane. I missed the mark. All of a sudden, I was ridiculously excited when a bird stopped in our window bird feeder. I joyfully showed my girls the way the wind tossed the leaves out from a budding tree. I watched in awe as our oldest stood in fields for hours catching butterflies. I suppose it's perspective.

I know all the pain and fear in the world is still there. The pain has been amplified by the replacement of my ignorance with awareness of how black Americans are being treated every day. I am constantly working to learn. I know there's work to be done, and I am dedicated to doing my part. There's pain happening everywhere and this writing is in no way attempting to minimize that pain. I simply realized I had to shift my perspective. My brain was consuming too much pain. I could not process or help anyone. I can commit to doing more when I stop. I've got to pause. That's the pesky self-care isn't it?!

Self-care for me is ever-evolving. It’s always a hot cup of coffee. It’s phone calls to my parents and friends. The driveway socially distanced visits. It’s The Lumineers playing as I cook, the intentional practice of enjoying a sunset, the written words on my gratitude journal, the open Bible on the side table, the sweat as I push myself physically during a workout. It’s constantly reading. It’s losing myself as I march with enthusiasm on a pretend hunt with my kids to locate an extinct dinosaur somewhere in South America (really, the den). It’s the simple shared smile with my husband across the room. A board game. It’s closing my eyes while the sun bears down on me. This pandemic living has shown me self-care is not just going to happen. I need to make it happen. The world needs us; the helpers. But, we can’t forget to pause first.