How to Recharge Yourself in this Pandemic

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

“The Serenity Prayer” by Karl Paul Reinhold Niebuhr (1892–1971)

Then

“Empty your pockets,” he demanded, harshly, pressing the rifle a bit harder against my left temple. The barrel felt cold and slippery against the sweat pooling on my forehead.

How had I ended up in this mess? How had I gone from palpable excitement to dreadful fear in a span of less than fifteen minutes? Sitting in the driver’s seat of my mother’s rusty old blue station wagon, on the side of a secluded road in Dar Es Salaam with a rifle against my head, was nowhere in my plans. After years of working hard and making sacrifices to achieve my dream of attending college in the United States a reality, I was weeks away from boarding my plane to New York and making my way Upstate to Hamilton College. The acceptance to Hamilton with full financial aid support was a very welcome and uplifting surprise after years of sadness and hardship that my family and I had faced after my father's sudden death. I was raring to get on that plane, and eager to land in a world of new opportunities and possibilities for both my family and I. This evening, I was supposed to be with my close friends, celebrating our high school graduation and my upcoming departure. Instead, was I going to be found lying on the side of this dusty, unpaved road with a bullet in my head? The Daily News headline in small letters on the page five local news would probably read, “19-YEAR OLD FOUND SHOT DEAD.”

This mess had begun as the darkness settled onto a breezy Dar Es Salaam evening. Joyfully looking forward to hanging out with my dear friends, I was driving my mother’s car in the city center, running a little late for our celebration. I spotted an empty parking space by “The Alcove”, a popular city restaurant, just as I drove past by it. A perfect spot, generally hard to come by at this time on a busy evening filled with eager patrons flocking restaurants in this upscale part of the city. I had to turn around in order to nab the space, so I turned right into a side street by the restaurant, intending to turn my car around. Seemingly, out of nowhere, a police officer popped out from in between two cars parked on this side street, hand up in the air directing me to stop. Strange. He wasn’t a traffic cop, they wore white uniforms. This guy was a law enforcement officer in a tan uniform and a black peaked cap. I knew I had done nothing wrong in making that right turn, so I was very confused as to why he was stopping me. I braked to a complete stop and the policeman walked up to the passenger side of the car. He flung the door open, removed the rifle sling off his shoulder and proceeded to climb in, sticking his rifle in between his knees. He slammed the door shut, and looked ahead.

“Drive,” he commanded.

I lifted my foot off the brake, and the car lurched forward slowly. “Sir, what did I do wrong?” I inquired.

“You turned illegally into this street,” he barked. “You are under arrest.”

“Sir, I turn into this street all the time. There are cars parked on the street facing the same direction we are going.”

“Look ahead, keep driving,” he commanded.

In a few minutes, which to me felt like hours that dragged endlessly, and a few turns later, he ordered me to stop. I pulled the car over to the right side of the road. In my rear view side mirror, I could see the wisps of the fugitive dust my car wheels had swept up scampering to settle down. We had stopped surprisingly not far from the Central Police Station where the policeman probably reported for duty. “The mistake you made will cost you, you will need to pay me one hundred thousand shillings,” he said.

“Sir, I made no mistake,” I retorted. Disputing him was a mistake. 

He cooly picked up his rifle, and put the barrel against my head. “You dare question my judgement?” he shouted.

My sweating accelerated. The back of my shirt felt like I had just walked a kilometer in the Dar Es Salaam monsoon. Thump. Thump. Thump. My heart beat in my head.

“Sir, I have no money to pay you,” I said, very softly.

“How can you have no money, muhindi wewe?” You Indian. People sometimes considered Africans of Indian origin, though a minority in Tanzania, to be wealthy. So, this was a shakedown. My skin color had betrayed me. This policeman just wanted the money my skin color possibly suggested I had. But I didn’t have money. My family and I were not well off. Yes, sure we had this car. But couldn’t he see that it was banged up and rusty?

“Then take me to your parents, they’ll pay your penalty,” he growled.

“My father is dead,” I said. “My mother has no money.”

“Empty your pockets,” he demanded, harshly, pressing the rifle a bit harder against my left temple. 

“They’re empty,” I replied. “I only have my driver’s license in my right pocket.” I exhaled, releasing the breath that seemed to be lodged like a brick inside my chest.

“Show me.”

I struggled, repeatedly failing to find the pocket opening to retrieve the license, even though I’d worn those pants hundreds of times. My elbow hit the car door handle. Thwack. I winced, the sharp pain jolted my body for a split second. Poor elbow. An unnecessary victim in my battle with the pocket opening. I inhaled deeply, letting the pain dissolve with that breath. In all that self-inflicted commotion, my mind somehow calmed. I resolved that there were only two stark choices ahead of me. 

The first choice, give in to the policeman’s order, and take him to my home. That meant bringing this corrupt man to my mother, my sister and my six-year old brother. He’d know where we lived, what our apartment looked like, and would probably show up unannounced again whenever it suited him. If I brought him home, financially, the answer was going to be the same for him. Reflecting the emptiness of my pockets, I knew our home was barren of the kind of cash he was looking for. The second choice, stand my ground, and see what would happen. Refuse to take him to my home. Protect my family. He’d probably shoot me. They’d probably find my body by the side of this dirt road. The car would surely be gone. Cannibalized for parts, the car was probably an acceptable substitute for the kind of cash this fellow was seeking. The choice in that moment was clear. My mind was clear. Let him shoot if he wants to, but I will not take him home. No way was I going to bring this mess onto my family. This one was on me. Standing my ground also came with its two options. I could stay, and let him press the trigger. Or I could try to open the door, undo the seat-belt and try to bolt. He, I’m sure, would still squeeze the trigger. The bottom line was still the same, a bullet somewhere in me. “Stay,” I said to myself. That moment of calmness, still sticks with me. Yes, I was scared. But I could not change the fact that I had a gun against my head. This had to end here, and with me. I was at peace with myself. 

Amazingly, I eventually won my battle with the pocket opening and wrestled out my driver’s license and handed it to him. He put the rifle back in between his knees to examine the driver’s license in the darkness using a flashlight he pulled out of his pocket. Then, he reached over and started patting me down, searching for anything else in my pockets. “How can you have no money, muhindi wewe?” he repeated under his breath. 

“Someone you know must have money, take me to them,” he said, when he found nothing in my pockets.

“I don’t know anyone who will give me money,” I said. 

He handed me my license back, opened the car door, stepped out and disappeared into the shadows as he slung the rifle back over his shoulder. I breathed heavily. My face, now, as wet as the back of my shirt, with tears. Eventually, I flipped the ignition key, turned the car around and headed home. 

All my life, I have found myself thinking about those moments with that rifle against my temple. Those moments will always be hard to shake. I was scared, yet I found calm. Somewhere, in those moments, I drew energy from a back-up battery within myself to find the courage to make the decisions I made and to say what I said to that policeman. I recall returning home after the incident, sharing the story with my family, shaking and crying uncontrollably. I never saw my friends that evening. I walked around for days after with a ringing in my ears. I felt mentally and physically exhausted and it took weeks to recharge and feel normal again. When I stepped on the plane to New York, I wondered, dejectedly, if I would ever return to Dar Es Salaam. Could I really come back to a motherland where the corruption had become so deep-rooted that any citizen could be held hostage for money by the enforcers of the law?

Now

As I sit here, writing this, I am scared. We are approaching seven months in quarantine with the COVID-19 pandemic. Seven months since a lot of us have largely been at home. My kids are back at school in a hybrid model, a sign of our new uneasy normal. They are masked when on the school premises and even when running five-minute miles for cross-country. Yet, everyday, we are informed of new COVID-19 diagnoses in our area. How can I not be scared for their safety? 

As I sit here, I am still grappling with the loss of my dearest friend and career champion. John passed away very suddenly in early April. I never got to thank him for being the greatest operating partner I ever worked with. He was my sponsor and a mentor who I deeply respected. I did not get to say goodbye. Much like my father’s sudden death, thirty-four years ago, John was alive in one moment and gone the next. There was no memorial ceremony for John, owing to the confusing early days of the pandemic. I mailed a card to his wife, expressing my sympathies. It felt so empty and impersonal. I have always been comfortable dealing with ambiguity, loose ends and the unknown, but with John’s passing I have inexplicably been searching for closure. 

With fear and sadness, I am dealing with other emotions as well. The anger that my kids have to navigate an uncertain future and loss of opportunities during this time. I’m angry that mask-wearing has been politicized rather than being a decent act to protect each other, for the greater good of humanity. I’m angry that over one million human lives have been lost to COVID-19, globally. The scale of this pandemic and the repercussions it has had on the global economy was, at some point, avoidable. I know these emotions are not idiosyncratic to me. There are millions of people out there that are dealing with far worse. Yet, I again feel like I have a rifle back up against my temple. A rifle that has been there seemingly for seven months. And, there is nothing I can do to change the pandemic.

This time, my back-up battery feels drained and I have lost the ability to fully recharge it. I have been able to rely on my back-up battery at many stressful points in my life. I have relied on it during final examinations week in college and during difficult situations and challenging times at work over my career. I am unable to still my mind and am unable to find calm to find that full recharge. So, now I’m allowing myself to partially recharge and try and maintain some state of partial charge. In my search for self-resilience and recharge practices, I have stumbled across a number of resources which have been crucial. From these, I have developed four practices that I follow, which might help you as you recharge.

Foremost in my resources has been a Medium post by Tara Haelle titled, “Your ‘Surge Capacity’ is Depleted - It’s Why You Feel Awful.” Tara Haelle, a science journalist, photographer, storyteller and educator, summarizes the work of three other scientists, beautifully, in her August 17th, 2020 Medium post. Tara writes, “Surge capacity is a collection of adaptive systems - mental and physical - that humans draw on for short-term survival in acutely stressful situations, such as natural disasters. But natural disasters occur over a short period even if recovery is long. Pandemics are different - the disaster itself stretches out indefinitely.” My back-up battery now has a scientifically accurate name. I should have probably always called it my “surge capacity.” One of the three scientists Tara quotes is Dr. Pauline Boss, who says of this pandemic, “It’s harder for high achievers. The more accustomed you are to solving problems, to getting things done, to having a routine, the harder it will be on you because none of that is possible right now. You get feelings of hopelessness and helplessness, and those aren’t good.” Checkmark, I feel that. Tara’s Medium post has been a revelation and is essential reading for anyone seeking coping mechanisms. Unconsciously, I’ve already been using some of Tara’s suggested recharge practices as I’ve been attempting to recharge my back-up battery. Now, each recharge mechanism, or practice, has a name and a related expense account. I’m now able to monitor how I’m expending the recharge as it occurs. Going for a walk, for example, helps me recharge. The fresh air, watching the seasons changing subtly during each walk, watching the squirrels as they stuff their cheeks with acorns to the point that their cheeks might burst heals me, energizes me and reminds me of the beauty in our vast world. Doom-scrolling Twitter, when back from that walk is a discharge, and therefore I have learned to avoid spending too much time on Twitter. Tara’s post helped me articulate my practices, and lean in toward recharging more and discharging less. I have also found tremendous resources in Brené Brown’s podcast “Unlocking Us,” Simon Sinek’s podcast “A Bit of Optimism,” and “The Next Big Idea” podcast.

Here are four things I am doing to recharge. One, always think forward. My coach, Julia Zielke, introduced me to my forward-thinking brain. I have defined my long-term goals succinctly, clearly and I have connected these goals to my feelings and emotions. I am more excited to achieve my goals, because I know exactly how I will feel when I have achieved these goals. With Julia’s help, I have specific strategies and actions in place that I am working on everyday, to make my goals real. In another example of thinking forward, when I don’t do my best during a job interview, rather than beat myself up after the interview, I write down three areas where I want to do better during my next interview. Tara provides corroborating evidence for this practice in her Medium post from Dr. Michael Maddaus who says, “Rather than being at the mercy of what’s going on, we can use the elements of our natural reward system and construct things that are good no matter what.” 

Two, take care of yourself. For me, this means at least an hour's walk outdoors everyday while listening to my favorite podcasts. In addition to enjoying nature, I learn new ideas and keep up with our ever-changing world through these podcasts. I also try to spend some time in the kitchen each day creating flavorful meals. I love to cook. The flavors released by Thai Panang curry paste sizzling in hot coconut oil at the bottom of a wok, as an example, enlightens my senses and calms me tremendously. I express my love for my kids through the meals I prepare for them. I want my kids to remember me through the memory of the food I cooked. For one birthday, they gifted me a handmade menu for “Daddy’s Diner,” an imaginary restaurant at which I would serve them the meals they love most. The meals they love, like “Tanzanian Red Kidney Bean Curry and Rice,” were all listed in that menu. I keep trying to expand that menu.

Three, help and uplift others. I am constantly engaging with others, like me, in the job search process to help build their resumes, help them prepare for interviews and make new connections through a group called “Uplifting Connections” on LinkedIn. Again, corroborating evidence comes from Tara quoting Dr. Ann Masten who lays out that, “Helping others is one of those win-win strategies of taking action because we’re all feeling a sense of helplessness and loss of control about what’s going on with this pandemic, but when you take action with other people, you can control what you are doing.” 

Finally, practice gratitude. The best and deeply researched resources on gratitude practice and gratitude writing can be found on PsychologyToday.com and PositivePsychology.com. Put very simply by author Amy Morin who wrote the bestseller “13 Things Mentally Strong People Don’t Do,” expressing gratitude opens doors to newer, stronger, and better relationships. The practice also improves sleep, psychological and physical health, all while enhancing empathy and improving self-esteem. So, allow me to close with my own gratitude.

Gratitude

I am grateful for the opportunity to write these gratitude pieces, and for those of you who are taking the time to read these and are sharing your valuable thoughts. I hope that with the four recharge practices I have laid out, I bring all of you with me to the other side of this pandemic with our back-up batteries fully or partially recharged. 

Thanking people I love, in writing, by telling their stories has been much-needed balm for my soul. Each word I write heals and recharges me. I am grateful to be healthy. I am grateful to have had difficult, but instructive, experiences in my life which have taught me that I can be resilient and bounce back. A rifle against my head was scary, but I’m still living to tell about it and continuing to learn from that experience everyday. I am deeply fortunate to have family, friends and coaches that care for me and who are reminding me to have the courage to change the things I can. I am thankful for wonderful writers like Tara Haelle, who are freely sharing essential learnings for us all during this time. And, finally, I am grateful for having known John. Words do not exist that describe how much John meant to me. I was privileged to have him on my side, and will forever miss his counsel. I love you, John. Rest In Peace.