Before COVID. After COVID.

After major world events, like D-Day and 9/11, life is measured in befores and afters. These significant global experiences shape the social norms of generations to come. Today, life is analyzed in before and after COVID. Three and a half years of boomeranging between periods of isolation and reunion, it finally feels like the worst of the disease is behind us.?

In most young and healthy circles, life feels regular. Families are passing around strep throat with abandon, lamenting the inconvenience of a single day home with antibiotics. In many ways, it feels like nothing changed.?

But the world lost 6,951,677 people. For those who lost a loved one to COVID, or wrestle with long term disability from the disease, the loss is very real and ongoing. I am one of the lucky ones. I do not know anyone directly that died from the disease. If you sit in the same happy position, it might seem easier to move on and be merry. However, I’d argue that we’ve all experienced trauma from three years of intermittent isolation. We have all lost time. We suffered blows to relationships that became complicated due to differing perspectives on what it means to be “COVID safe.” Families and friends already torn apart from the polarizing politics of our day navigated new divisive questions of vaccinations or Christmas? To test or lie about tests? Desperation to be together created complicated ethical questions that didn’t always reveal our best selves. We were all struggling.?

Today I want to lift the veil of our denial for a moment to make the case that relations are still strained. In three years, our circles became smaller. Minor geographic distances felt far. Time became more limited when seasonally disrupted by winter surges. Pandemic parenting made Facetime and Zoom meetups feel too exhausting. We have all lost someone to COVID. To those for whom time and distance have faded our ties, I am sorry. I want to take a moment here to acknowledge that although we have not spoken in some time, I love you and I will always be in your corner. You have your own story of this time and I have mine. As we march on our own paths towards healing, I hope our roads converge.?

In the Summer of 2022, when the lingering darkness of that winter’s Omicron surge felt suffocating, I began a journey of experimentation. Lady & the Floofs was my reaction to the pain and stagnation of the COVID era. I longed to gather a generation of Floofs raised on Purell and masks to touch food together with stinky little hands. A daring endeavor for a still germaphobic society, the Floofs rose to the occasion. Everyone needed a bit of silly good fun with spaghetti. We needed joy. We needed reconnection.?

One year later, COVID feels all the more distant. Perhaps this reflection on the trauma of the experience is irrelevant now that we’re all so over it. However, as I spend the Summer of 2023 reconnecting with old friends, I am struck by the familiarity and newness of our relationships. We are different people than we were before. Each with our own COVID stories and slights, we are rebuilding on shared history. On a recent trip to The Berkshires, seven families of old friends traveled from across the country to co-parent our toddlers at the site of many carefree childless weekends. Tired and exasperated from our kids’ antics, I couldn’t help but also feel the privilege of experiencing this chaos together. Watching our kids become friends with our friends’ kids is special.?

But we are not all picking up the pieces in the same stage of grief. For those who have an immunocompromising health condition, or live with someone who does, COVID never really ended. To my mother, caretaker to my step-father with advancing Parkinsons, the stakes were raised. Whenever we felt safe to gather, his condition seemed more pronounced and the grandchildren more grown up. I feel acutely aware of time. So does my mother. Recently, she surprised me with the invitation to have a meal in a restaurant. She’s been making some changes. At our coffee shop lunch, she described her sense that life was passing by and that she was trying to be more present.?

This weekend we ventured with my mother and stepfather to a red sauce Italian restaurant on Long Island that housed our family’s Sunday night dinners for five decades. As I looked around the crowded room of multigenerational families, I felt struck by the magic of watching my children connect with their grandparents over these familiar dishes. The flavors conjured memories of those no longer with us at the table. Through noodles and sauce, we came together.

We have all lost people and time we cannot get back. Wherever you are in your own grief journey from denial to anger to depression, I am hopeful that acceptance is in our collective horizon. We cannot erase the pain of what is lost, but we can choose a new perspective. Time is more precious. To be together is a privilege. The sauce is sweeter these days. And I am here for it.