The pandemic created a lot of change. It's okay if we don't know what's on the other side yet

(I wrote the piece below in response to a writing prompt from Hello Monday’s Jessi Hempel . She asked her listeners to answer the following questions: How do you remember feeling one year ago? How do you feel right now? How do you aspire to feel in a year?

I may have cheated a bit on the format, and the length.)

It was exactly this time last year — almost to the day — when I hit a pandemic low. At the time, it seemed a bit ironic; I had just returned home after a week in the Sierras, a desperately needed break from everything pandemic-related. My family and I had rented a beautiful, secluded house well off the beaten path, where we hiked and swam everyday and ended our evenings bantering on the wraparound deck, taking in the unobstructed mountain views.?

But it had been only a small respite from everything else I was feeling at the time, which was a whole lot of anxiety. I had anxiety about my dad being ill (he died six months later); I had anxiety about what the soaring covid cases would mean for my husband as a doctor. I had anxiety about facing another school year juggling both distance learning and my own job.?

I had anxiety, period.

I was done.?

But hitting emotional bottom kicked off what I would end up describing — only partly tongue in cheek — as a year of transformation. “I’m a whole new me!” I joked, as friends and family marveled at this new person in front of them, someone who suddenly, and seemingly out of nowhere, was a bike-riding cat lover who liked to meditate. (The bike, the cat and the meditation were all newfound pandemic experiences … my equivalent of the sourdough starter, I guess.)

What people didn’t see — or rather, what I didn’t mention — was the work it took to get there. I’m lucky to work for a company that offered mental health benefits even prior to the pandemic, and I did two rounds of therapy: eight weeks of cognitive behavioral therapy and then grief counseling after my dad died.

Therapy pulled me out of my darkest days. Today I feel like myself.

After my dad died, someone recommended a book called Transitions by William Bridges. It’s an old book, written before I was even born. But I found it at exactly the right moment.?

In the book, Bridges talks about the difference between change and transition. A “transition” is the mental process we undergo in response to change. Every change starts with an ending, and after a period of transition, we emerge ready for a new beginning.

Covid was change. Losing my dad was change. Becoming a manager, working from home, sheltering in place — all change.

But the inner work I’ve done to figure out how to process all that change — that’s transition.

So next year??

I think I’m finally reaching the end of what Bridges calls “the neutral zone,” where we’re simply supposed to wander (sometimes literally, more often figuratively) until we reach our new beginning. You’re going to see a lot more healthcare stories from me. I also have a personal interest in a topic that’s been getting a lot of attention recently, which is how to be both vulnerable and professional in the workplace. I know I’m not the only person who struggled with transition after the pandemic upended our lives in ways large and small. More people are speaking out about their mental health and pushing employers to rethink their policies and benefits around those conditions.

I want to write about that too. I want to be vulnerable in the work I do here.?

Bringing your personal life into the workplace can be challenging. When my dad was in and out of the hospital last year, I didn’t know what to say to my coworkers; it was hard to talk about something so nebulous (he was sick, he was better, he was sick, he was better) and so open-ended. When I spoke up, everyone was always kind and supportive — but there’s a tendency to give people space when we think they’re struggling, and that’s precisely what I didn’t want. I didn’t want to be passed over for opportunities; I didn’t want to be seen as fragile.

I was fine, really … but also, sometimes, not.

After my dad died, I published an essay about grief . I had found my voice and a way — finally — to talk about everything I had gone through.

The relief was almost euphoric. “I had energy and I had ideas,” I wrote, describing my return to work a week after the funeral.?

And then after a month of reprieve, grief found me in earnest. Grief is a beast. It throws you against a wall and you can’t be anything but vulnerable.

But vulnerability doesn’t mean that you’re broken; sometimes it means you’re being put back together. Vulnerability doesn’t mean you’re weak; it can also mean you’re strong.

Many of us are once again navigating a period of transition as we (and our employers) slowly return to “normal,” what we all know will be a “new normal,” not quite a 2019 “normal.” But today I feel hopeful. One of the most important things I learned in therapy was the importance of recognizing joy. I never used to think “joy” was an emotion I needed to overanalyze — joy is joy, right? — but now, whenever I feel joy, I take a moment to appreciate it.?

Because what I’ve come to realize is that even in the worst moments, there’s still so much joy to be found.?

Work brings me joy. Maybe that’s why I so very much wanted to keep it separate from all the “bad” stuff that was happening last year. But perhaps I’ll try something different this time around.?

I’ll try to be a bit vulnerable.

A new beginning.

If you're willing to share, I’d love to hear about a time you’ve been vulnerable at work, and how it went. And maybe we can navigate this transitional period together.