Last August, as I celebrated my 41st birthday, I found myself on a much-needed getaway with my partner and our two sons, exploring the majestic Redwoods in Northern California. I was feeling hopeful—I had finally managed to color my hair, work was tolerable, we were surviving six months into the pandemic, and I had rekindled my passion for writing after years of being preoccupied with parenting. The fall was a comforting blur of cinnamon-scented candles, homemade pumpkin donuts, and the relief of a favorable election outcome. In the back of my mind, I thought that better days were on the horizon, even though I knew that was a bit naive. However, Thanksgiving came and went, a new surge of COVID-19 cases jolted us back to reality, and 2021 arrived, dragging along the heavy baggage of the previous year. Here we are, still stuck, with the promise of vaccines complicated by variants and the dream of in-person schooling fading into the distance.
Amid this prolonged pandemic experience, I started to feel the signs of aging creeping in. A sedentary lifestyle led to sciatica, deepening wrinkles around my face, and I discovered gray hairs in places where I would rather not see them. Then came the final blow—a note from my doctor stating, “Your labs indicate elevated cholesterol, so I’m going to prescribe a statin, and we’ll re-evaluate in two months.” Well, that was a wake-up call.
I’ve always had a sense that I might be the type to experience a mid-life crisis. I often find myself questioning whether I chose the right career path or if I’d be happier pursuing something more creative. I even wonder if having kids was the right decision, despite being completely enamored with them and believing they’ve enriched my life immensely. Being confined at home, with no school events, dinners out, or vacation plans to look forward to, leaves me pondering, “Is this all there is?”
In my 20s and 30s, it felt like I had all the time in the world to figure out my life and discover what would bring me happiness. I often thought I had found it—when I married my partner at 31, life felt like a grand adventure ahead. We envisioned living abroad, pursuing exciting careers, and eventually starting a family. But then, the years flew by, filled with travel, pregnancy, and the challenges of raising young children. Suddenly, we hit a wall—the COVID wall—and now, as I sit atop it, I look back at the years since my eldest was born and wonder, “What happened? I can’t even remember.” I also gaze ahead and think, “Is there more beyond this wall, or are we trapped here indefinitely?”
Time keeps ticking—I can see the days passing on my calendar and the holidays coming and going—but it feels like nothing has truly changed. Each day seems to blend into the next, and at times, it feels like I might be stuck on this wall forever.
Just last week, while driving with my sister, she mentioned, “I was on this fascinating Zoom call last night. Six of my friends shared their frustrations about work, relationships, and their living situations. One is considering moving across the country, worried she won’t ever return to San Francisco. Another just ended a long-term relationship. Everyone seems to be struggling right now.”
My husband and I have recently been discussing the possibility of moving back east, lamenting the high cost of living in the Bay Area as many of our friends have already left due to skyrocketing housing prices and wildfire smoke. I found myself zoning out, scrolling through Zillow in a desperate attempt to escape the overwhelming news cycle, obsessively searching for a new home, a fresh start. Then, we took a short trip to the mountains, and the crisp winter air seemed to jolt me awake. I realized I had been convinced that I needed to uproot my life to move forward, that I would stagnate if I didn’t take immediate action.
While in the car with my sister, I candidly shared, “I feel like I’m going through a COVID mid-life crisis.” I had just reassured her we probably weren’t moving, which relieved her. “Can you believe I almost sold my house and ran away?”
In the early days of the pandemic, many turned to new hobbies as a means of coping. “I know, I’ll learn to bake bread!” Millions invested in home exercise equipment or started home renovations as distractions.
In this state of uncertainty, I often find myself in the kitchen, chopping vegetables or stirring soup, questioning why I feel so discontented. I have so much to be grateful for: my children, my home, my family. So why do I feel this way? There are people facing far worse challenges. I sift through my thoughts, considering work stress, physical aches, and weight gain. While those factors contribute to my state of mind, they don’t fully explain the feeling of emptiness. My thoughts drift to work-related frustrations, only to have me reach for my phone to scroll through Zillow again, hoping to find something better—or perhaps just something different.
So, what’s the answer? Should I make a drastic change, uproot my family, and move to a farm in Oregon just to feel something new? Should I seek work that stimulates my dormant creativity and makes me eager for the workday? Should I plan a vacation six months down the line and hope it materializes? I need to find a way to clear this mental block that so often distracts me and drives my obsessive search for solutions. Or should I simply continue to wait, appreciating what I have and accepting that there may not be a perfect answer?
We’re all looking to fill this void, trying to find something—anything—to ease that all-too-familiar sense of anxiety and emptiness. Logically, I know there’s an end to this, but for now, I guess I’ll just stay on this wall, scrolling through Zillow.
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