In the third week of lockdown, I found myself caught in a whirlwind of comparison. Everywhere I looked, friends were baking bread in pristine kitchens, children were mastering new languages and instruments, and others were organizing their homes or starting ambitious workout regimes.
In those first couple of days, I was on top of my game. I woke up at our usual hour, whipped up a hot breakfast for both myself and my daughter by 7:30 am, and even swapped our routine school walk for a brisk morning stroll. I rang a bell at 8:30 am to signal the Pledge of Allegiance and gave “morning announcements” to set a positive tone for the day.
But by the second night, I was jolted awake at 3:30 am, gripped by a panic attack—a familiar foe since losing my husband unexpectedly when I was just 34 and my daughter was still a toddler. It was a stark reminder from my body to slow down and simply survive. The following day was spent ensconced under a cozy blanket, binge-watching Korean dramas. After that initial week, I abandoned any hope of making this “new normal” feel normal because, frankly, it wasn’t and wouldn’t be for a long time. What we’re experiencing globally is a form of grief, and I was all too familiar with that feeling.
When my husband passed away, I was enveloped in a cocoon of grief. No one expected anything from me. My bed became a sanctuary against the world, surrounded by an overflowing basket of sympathy cards I would eventually respond to—just not for many months. I ate my mother’s famous Christmas cookies for breakfast on what would have been my husband’s birthday, a comforting ritual. Despite having no television, my daughter watched DVDs gifted by a neighbor while I stayed in bed, struggling to gather the strength to get up each morning.
I didn’t drive for weeks, afraid I wouldn’t be able to focus. Cooking was out of the question—our church community provided meals for months. Productivity was a distant goal; I simply showered, fed my daughter, and attempted to process the shocking changes to my life. So why would I expect myself to bake fresh bread during a time of collective grief?
Grieving is universal, yet every individual’s process is uniquely shaped by their relationships and losses. Though we’re all experiencing a global crisis, not everyone’s quarantine looks the same. Some are solo parents juggling work and children with minimal adult interaction, while others are managing the chaos of multiple kids. Some are caring for elderly parents, and many have family members on the front lines, risking their lives daily.
Additionally, our reactions to the pandemic are colored by our personal grief. A friend who is a fitness instructor shares daily workout videos, while another organizes activities to keep her kids entertained. Yes, some people are baking, but I am a writer, so I’ve chosen to write.
I’ve also been preparing three meals a day and even managed to bake banana bread and muffins. Each day, I make it a point to step outside, often jump-roping on the driveway while my daughter sweeps the steps. In the first week, I even shared an adorable well-being guide that we created online. Perhaps others have looked to me for inspiration, but in light of what we’re all facing, none of it truly matters.
As Joyce Carol Oates poignantly noted in her memoir, “Of the widow’s countless death-duties, there is really just one that matters: on the first anniversary of her husband’s death, the widow should think, ‘I kept myself alive.’” I believe this sentiment applies during a pandemic as well. Surviving through these tumultuous times is an achievement worth celebrating.
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Summary:
This reflection sheds light on the pressures of coping during a pandemic, particularly for those who have experienced loss. While some may find solace in baking and productivity, others may simply need to focus on surviving and processing their grief. Each person’s journey through this unprecedented time is unique, and it’s essential to honor our individual experiences.
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