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I was cruising at 55 mph in the fast lane of the Bay Bridge when it hit me—I hadn’t driven at night in over a year. Cars zipped around me like pesky flies. Was nighttime driving always this disorienting? Shouldn’t it be illegal? Also, isn’t the risk of dying in a car accident a thousand times greater than from COVID?
I was on my way to a friend’s outdoor birthday dinner, marking my first venture back into social life—and the first time I’d left my four-month-old son and three-year-old twins since the pandemic began. Most of the group was vaccinated, COVID numbers in the Bay Area were declining, and my baby was finally sleeping through the night. My logical side insisted it was time to go out again. So that night, I left my husband at home with our sleeping children and ventured into the world.
However, the moment I backed out of the driveway, a wave of unease washed over me. As I drove down our street and felt my breasts suddenly fill with milk, my unease morphed into full-blown anxiety. By the time I reached the bridge, I was teetering on the edge of a panic attack. What if the massive structure collapsed into the bay? How could I justify being so far from my little ones in the dark, separated by a body of unswimmable water? It felt wrong, unnatural. My body reacted instinctively while my mind scolded me for being overly dramatic.
I attempted to drown out the anxiety with my pre-kids “Going Out” playlist—featuring plenty of Robyn and a dash of Nicki Minaj—and somehow made it to the restaurant. The outdoor dining setup looked surreal, almost cartoonish, like something out of a bizarre dream. Twinkling lights hung between heat lamps, illuminating picnic tables laden with appetizers and surrounded by friends in pristine sneakers sipping IPAs and women in stylish masks laughing over glasses of white wine. The place was packed. I unsteadily joined my friends, who were deep in debate about Meghan Markle’s authenticity. It seemed like no one else had missed a beat.
“Emily!” the birthday girl exclaimed, “You made it!”
“I did! It was a harrowing journey!” I responded, but no one laughed. Oh no, I had lost my ability to read social cues.
“Well, time for champagne!” she said, pouring me a glass. “Cheers to no kids! Or husbands!”
“Only a little, I have to drive home!” I replied, desperately wanting to check the baby monitor on my phone.
“Come on, don’t think about home!” she encouraged.
Escaping the house had been my dream for the first half of the pandemic. I longed to break free from the stifling domesticity of caring for infants and toddlers. More than once, I envisioned fleeing to Baja, where my only responsibility would be to develop a refined taste for tequila. So why was I suddenly anxious about having two free hours? The truth was, the combination of pandemic stress, pregnancy, and postpartum anxiety had woven a thick cocoon around me for the last 18 months, and all the scenarios I had fantasized while trapped inside were just that—fantasies. I wasn’t ready for this.
I texted my husband under the table. “Everything okay back there?”
His response: “The baby is crying—but he’ll settle. Don’t text, have fun!!”
“Emily! Get off your phone! Checking in is not allowed!” my friend insisted.
“Sorry! What are you guys ordering?” I asked, glancing at the menu, feeling overwhelmed. I wanted to cry.
Could this be postpartum depression? It reminded me of how I felt after my twins’ challenging birth. For months, I clung to my home, tethered to the basics of survival. The outside world felt hazardous, where I could easily lose touch with my babies’ rhythm, which was all that mattered. Even the chaotic stimuli of news and social media made me feel queasy. I had always been a go-getter, rushing from meetings to happy hours, but now I felt like a sensitive creature focused solely on food, shelter, and sleep.
After the initial lockdown, I adopted this survival mentality to maintain my sanity. My best days were when I let go of the dream of escaping and instead imagined myself as a pioneer woman on the prairie. A successful day was defined by everyone eating and no one getting hurt. Everything felt okay as long as we took care of the basics and followed our daily routines. Over time, this became a natural way of being rather than just a coping strategy—much like adjusting to life with a newborn.
The waiter arrived. “Ready to order?”
Incredibly, everyone was. They rattled off dishes I had forgotten existed—Dungeness crab, pork belly, kumquats. I scanned the salads, realizing pioneers didn’t eat microgreens. Panicking, I ordered the soup of the day, a familiar lifeline back to the canned goods I had been hoarding.
“So guys, we can no longer use the smiley face emoji,” one friend remarked after the waiter left.
“Also, no skinny jeans!” chimed in another. “Or side parts!”
Everyone laughed. What? How had such common fashion trends changed overnight? The conversation shifted to A-Rod and J-Lo, Zoom mishaps, and the best toys to keep kids entertained when you just need a moment to breathe. Gradually, I began to enjoy the exchange. My friends’ quick banter flickered a light in my brain that had been dimmed for years. I found myself laughing at their jokes—what a relief to be among adults instead of just cleaning mac and cheese off the floor.
But while waiting in line for the restroom, I checked the baby monitor again. He was crying. My breasts began leaking into my bra pads. The primal anxiety returned. I needed to go home. The baby needed his mom more than I needed to discuss celebrity gossip.
“No!” my friends protested when I announced I was leaving. “It’s your one night out! At least stay until 9!”
“No, I have to go,” I insisted, and fled the scene.
As I drove back over the bridge (faster this time), I felt torn. On one side was the return to “normalcy” with all its connections and overwhelming stimuli; on the other was the cocoon, with its comforting simplicities and occasional soul-numbing boredom. I was racing back toward regular life, a massive relief for obvious reasons. But how quickly should I expect myself to bounce back from the fog of pregnancy and postpartum amidst a global pandemic?
I’m learning that the answer is: not quickly at all. Like many others, I need to be gentle with myself. I might not want to be a pioneer woman forever—eventually, I might just take the wagon and escape to Baja. But having navigated postpartum challenges twice now, alongside a pandemic, I find that the extroverted, fast-paced world I once thrived in feels a bit crazy. Periods of survival change us. We emerge different, with new goals and priorities, and we shed what no longer serves us.
When I returned home, everyone was sleeping peacefully, including my baby and my husband. As I walked through my quiet house, it felt strangely alien—a separate entity rather than an extension of myself. I poured a glass of wine and sat alone in the darkened living room.
“Missing you guys!” I texted my friends back at the restaurant. And surprisingly, I truly was.
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