You’re 18 now, celebrating your birthday with your friends over FaceTime. Your high school graduation consists of your diploma sitting beneath a blue and gold 2020 tassel in a depressing white box. There’s a sign planted on your lawn: Congratulations Graduate! Class of 2020. Campus life is reduced to zoom calls in plaid pj pants and puffy duvets, technical difficulties, and WhatsApp group chats. There’s a lot of worry, a lot of empathy, and a whole lot more uncertainty.
It’s easy to feel like we’ve lost our youth to the pandemic. We were robbed of opportunities, experiences, friendships, and for some, robbed of the people we love most. It took away our ability to grieve and heal together.
The loss of human connection and companionship impacted different aspects of our lives. For me as a Muslim, it took my community away from me. As Muslims, we grieve together. In the passing of a loved one, whether we know them personally or not, we gather in a mosque to pray in love and forgiveness for them, and in respect for their family. This was especially difficult when pandemic restrictions tightened to five people in a household. Mosque doors were locked and mosques were left empty and barren. In some ways, I was lucky. My mother’s family friend passed away at a time when the mosque was being opened again. People flooded the mosque in waves to see her off. Never had I seen two janazah (funeral) prayers be done for someone before. But I understand that there was a longing to be with people again, to connect with one another, to stand shoulder to shoulder with them (6 feet apart), to grieve and love and heal with them.
The pandemic wasn’t easy for anyone. Horror after horror bombarded our newsfeeds. We watched the world crumble and build itself back up again, and we could only be a part of it through our phones. Disconnected from the world, we were completely alone.
Now that restrictions have finally been lifted, malls and schools and parks are all filled with life and excitement again. It is an opportunity to regain what we lost and to center ourselves — to start a journey of compassion and healing.
“The worst happened, and then it passed. You lost the person you thought you couldn’t live without and then you kept living. You lost your job then found another one. You began to realize that “safety” isn’t in certainty—but in faith that you can simply keep going.”
― Brianna Wiest, 101 Essays That Will Change the Way You Think
Validate Your Feelings
If I had a dollar for every time I heard my friends say “yeah, but some people have it worse”, I’d be Jeff Bezos (the ethical version though). It’s always good to acknowledge your privilege, but you can’t help the way you feel. It’s okay to feel sad, to feel robbed, like you’ve lost something to the pandemic and not know what exactly that is. This has been a tough journey for us all. You’re seen. You’re heard. And most importantly, you’re loved.
Go Outside
During the height of the pandemic, going on walks meant that the streets were too quiet, devoid of people and cars. For a long time, it felt like it was just me and the squirrels. While that was fun, taking walks on Kay Gardner Beltline Trail with friends in-person makes me forget that there was ever a time where I could only see their faces glitching on FaceTime.
Build your social life
As an ex-extrovert (thank you Quarantine), I find myself becoming drained early on in conversations and favoring my own company to avoid exhaustion. If you’re anything like me, start small. Test the waters! Figure out how much socializing you can take, who drains you and who doesn’t, and adjust. Drop by an on-campus event for an hour and make new friends, and take yourself out right before it gets too much for you. Don’t take away your chance to meet new people, have inspiring conversations, and improve your overall mental wellbeing. Oftentimes, the most meaningful part of your day are the small moments shared with strangers, a smile from a baby, or bearhugs from friends. People are wonderful, they’re worth getting to know, and so are you. Don’t rob the world of that.
journal
I can’t remember who I was before the pandemic. It sounds odd to say. I have photos, of course. But seeing the notification, the photo, 2 years ago today on my phone screen is always jarring. I see someone who looks like me, short and tan and lively, but isn’t me.
For some of us, we miss the person we were before the pandemic. For others, we can’t remember who we were. Some of us don’t don’t even know who we are now. The only way I figured out who I am, how resilient I am, and how much love and compassion I have to offer myself, was through journaling.
Journaling is just a prettier way of saying a diary for big kids with big kid problems. There’s 10 different styles to play around with, so figure out what suits you. Make it an intimate experience for yourself. Journal on a picnic bench filled with ladybugs, on campus grounds to the sound of students’ laughter, or on rainy mornings in the comfort of your bed. There’s no right or wrong way to journal. What’s important is that you take the time to know yourself. Give yourself lots of love and comfort. When you feel your head fill with too many thoughts, put it on paper. Write out your problems, how you can solve them, and how grateful you are for showing up for yourself at this very moment. Read it back months later and see just how small your problems were. Take the time to reflect on how amazing (or poorly) you handled it, and as the great Kiana Ledé once said, “just keep it moving.”
The first time I was on campus and saw students flood Vari Hall, I smiled the entire way to class and back. Seeing my friends in their regular school attire (which means bummy — very, very bummy), stressed out over professors and classwork, sitting on the grass in front of the subway station, and getting harassed by Canadian Geese, was oddly wholesome. Having this be taken away from me temporarily made me enjoy the sun a little more, sit outside a little longer, and, as cheesy as it is, feel just a little stronger. Adjusting to the new normal is difficult, but with the right company, the right habits, and lots of love and compassion for ourselves and others, I know we’ll be okay.