During the initial week of the COVID-19 lockdown, I found myself spiraling into a near-panic. My mind was consumed by the relentless cycle of information; if I wasn’t glued to NPR, I was scrolling through Twitter, obsessively tracking infection numbers and body counts. It was clearly a recipe for anxiety, and I was driving myself to the brink.
When I stumbled upon the #ChalkYourWalk trend on Instagram, I figured it might be worth a try. The concept was simple yet appealing—write positive messages with sidewalk chalk for your neighbors to enjoy. Plus, it would be a great way to keep my restless kids entertained. So, I gathered a bucket of chalk and led my children to the path behind our home.
My five-year-old immediately got to work, crafting the phrase “we are all in this together” in a vibrant array of colors, complete with hearts. Her younger sister, meanwhile, was busy digging in the dirt and squealing with delight whenever she unearthed a worm. The atmosphere was cheerful and peaceful; no squabbles in sight.
I picked up a piece of chalk, contemplating what to write. Should it be humorous or profound? My older daughter was already engrossed in her next chalk masterpiece, while the younger one continued her excavation. I settled down on a sunny patch and began drawing a large hourglass, inscribing the words “This won’t last forever” along its frame. Though it was a bit awkward and the perspective was off, I was determined to finish. I added white chalk streaks to give the glass a reflective quality and used various shades of green and blue for the sand.
Artistry is not my forte; I’m a writer by trade. In March, I had just celebrated the release of my latest book—a project four years in the making. Critics praised it as “riveting” and “sharp,” and I had envisioned a year filled with book tours and media appearances. Then, the pandemic struck, abruptly halting any plans outside of the essentials. And let’s face it, book tours were not deemed essential.
After completing my hourglass, I stepped back to admire my creation. It was imperfect but not terrible. I snapped a photo and sent it to my husband with a note about my boredom. His response, “I wish I was bored,” hit me hard. As an oncologist, he was grappling with the complexities of caring for patients during a pandemic, and I felt an overwhelming wave of guilt.
I checked my email, hoping for updates from my agent or publicist—maybe a spike in book sales or an interview request. But nothing came. My heart sank.
That afternoon, as I washed dishes at the sink, I caught sight of neighbors pausing to admire my clumsy drawing. Some smiled, and a few even took photos. My heart swelled with unexpected warmth.
The following day, I found myself back on the path, this time sketching a large soap bottle. My lines were shaky, but I kept them light, hoping to cover them up as I went along. As I wrote “Wash your hands” in bubbly letters, I felt the tension in my jaw begin to dissolve. My kids lost interest in the chalk art but were happily playing nearby, allowing me to continue my work.
For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t consumed by thoughts of the virus or lamenting the unfortunate timing of my book release. I wasn’t compulsively checking social media or fretting over my husband’s safety. I was simply creating. And it felt liberating.
Over the next few weeks, I went through three boxes of chalk, drawing dinosaurs, monsters, and even a somewhat sad sunset. I experimented with different fonts, rediscovering the bubble letters I loved in middle school. The path behind my house became increasingly popular, and I convinced myself that it was my artwork attracting the foot traffic, rather than the lockdown that limited outdoor activities. Each time someone paused to snap a photo of my drawings, I couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride.
As the world outside grew more frightening, I found solace in this quirky hobby. I began creating themed days, announcing, “Today is chalk day for healthcare heroes!” before embarking on a five-foot paper mask project, with my kids occasionally wandering over to check it out. At dinner, I’d brainstorm ideas for the next day’s creation, and at night, I’d experiment with new color blending techniques.
Though my drawings were still far from perfect, they were improving, and so was I. The mental clarity I found while chalking began to linger, even after I finished each piece. I felt less irritable and anxious, and I was beginning to let go of the bitterness about lost opportunities.
One morning, I woke up to a text from my sister saying my sidewalk chalk art had made it onto BuzzFeed. I clicked the link, and there it was—my drawing of a Project Mercury spacecraft alongside an astronaut helmet, featuring the phrase: “Be like NASA: Give people space” in bright colors. I’d created it weeks earlier as a rather self-indulgent homage to my space history book, which I had hoped to promote on tour.
I stared at my phone, then burst into laughter. It was a moment of clarity: I had spent years believing that my book was the pinnacle of success, but now I understood that family, health, and support are what truly matter. This situation was undeniably challenging, but we could navigate it by uplifting one another.
My next chalk piece featured a quote from FDR: “When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot in it and hang on.”
In summary, the #ChalkYourWalk movement has not only offered me a creative outlet during a tumultuous time but has also helped me rediscover what truly matters in life. For anyone interested in exploring similar creative avenues or seeking resources on family planning, check out this insightful blog post or consider visiting Make A Mom for essential information on home insemination kits. Another valuable resource for pregnancy and home insemination can be found at UCSF’s fertility treatments page.
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